Chapter One:
Rinse and Repeat
April 30, 2033
Hours Local Time, First 12 Hours of the War
Bravo Company, 2-503rd Infantry Regiment
Near Gurfiles, Gotland, Sweden
Captain Alex Mercer felt his body moving as he regained consciousness. In a start, he awoke to the sensation of pain, and the realization that the ground was moving beneath him. He realized as he looked down that he was being dragged by the handle on the back of his plate carrier. Someone strong was urgently trying to pull him away from danger.
While his body slid over dirt and wet grass, his brain tried to recall what had happened. Ouch! He winced as his elbow scraped something sharp. He felt a twig snap against some piece of kit attached to him. The sense of feeling across his back, his legs and arms started to return, screaming at him in pain.
Wake up, brain! Mercer yelled at himself. His body responded slowly. Breathe in, breathe out…He tried to inhale. The air tasted like soil and blood.
“Watch out!” he thought he heard, but he couldn’t be certain. His perception of sounds returned in layers—garbled at first, then clearer. He heard shouts in English and words in Swedish; he tried to respond, but his words came out in Spanish, as if he was on his family ranch back home.
He heard rifle shots, sharp cracks that caused his body to flinch as his brain still struggled to catch up.
Wake up! Those are rifle rounds… that’s a machine gun… that’s a tank firing… wake up!
His eyes snapped wide open—tree leaves rustled overhead, and his body was still being dragged.
“Dan, is that you?” Mercer asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Holloway responded, hauling Mercer a little further, behind some cover. It was an uneven berm at the edge of a tree belt, like a trench somebody had forgotten to finish.
Holloway dropped beside him, rifle up, cheek welded to the stock. His head moved in short, disciplined cuts—scanning left, right, then back to center.
“You OK, Captain?” Holloway asked.
Mercer tried to answer but coughed instead. Dirt came up in his throat. His ears rang like someone had placed a tuning fork next to them, but he felt his senses starting to return to him. He forced his hands to move—hands didn’t lie when the mind was still catching up. He felt for his chest rig. Check. His sling and rifle were next. Check.
“Yeah, I think I’ll be all right. What happened, Dan? And what’s going on?”
Holloway leaned close without taking his eyes off the berm. His voice dropped to a fast, efficient murmur.
“A missile from that Ka-52 hit close. The blast threw you into the dirt. I thought you might have been a goner at first,” Holloway recounted briefly. “When I felt a pulse, I started pulling you back to safety. We’re still in the thick of it—Bertil’s guys lost a CV90. We’ve got some tanks with us, but that Ka-52 is still around.”
Mercer forced himself to a knee. He felt the world tilt for a moment before steadying himself on the berm with a hand. “What’s the enemy situation?”
“They’re attempting to break contact,” Holloway explained.
“That sounds good for us. What’s our situation like?” Mercer asked, looking around to find his people.
“Mixed,” replied Holloway. “Our armor’s hurt, but it looks like we blunted their advance.”
Mercer nodded as his mind tried to go back to the last clear moment. When he looked to the fields and hedgerows that outlined the little village of Gurfiles, all he saw was death. Wrecked and burning vehicles and the remains of bodies were scattered about, unmoving.
Bang, bang, bang. Mercer heard the sound of the CV90’s 40mm autocannon fire as he watched the rounds tear into a Chinese APC. It blew apart in a ball of flames moments later.
“Ah, crap. It’s that helicopter again,” Holloway cursed. He shouted for someone to ready one of their Stingers.
Mercer heard a loud popping noise and turned in time to see a Swedish tank and CV90 deploy their smoke canisters. A bubble of white smoke quickly engulfed the vehicles as the sound of helicopter blades grew closer.
The Ka-52 flew low over the trees like a predator that had spotted its prey. A pair of missiles streaked out from beneath its wing pylons. The first missile bolted for the CV90 but missed, exploding somewhere behind it. The second one plowed into a Strv 122, the tank exploding in a bright flash before its ammo ignited. It blew the turret hatches open as geysers of flame shot into the sky.
“Damn, we lost a tank and the crew,” cursed Holloway angrily.
Mercer rose to a half crouch, shaking his head as he took in the sight of the burning tank. Armor was one thing they lacked on Gotland. They had one tank company, three platoons and a headquarters section. That was it.
A shout ripped through the chaos behind him, high and urgent.
“Stinger away!”
A clean swoosh cut through the rifle fire. He saw it through a gap in the trees—white smoke streaking upward, fast and direct, the missile zeroing in on its targets.
Mercer’s eyes tracked the missile as it looked for the helicopter, but the canopy was a mess of branches and smoke. Then he saw it for half a heartbeat—the Ka-52 appeared above the tree line, just long enough to become a target.
The Stinger slammed into the cockpit, and for a blink, the Ka-52’s canopy flashed, like a mini sun inside the glass. A spray of glittering fragments burst outward and vanished into the branches. The gunship bucked, nose snapping up and sideways as the rotor disk shuddered out of plane. The cannon cut off mid-burst. The helicopter tried to keep flying, then didn’t—it rolled, dipped, and dropped behind the treeline. A half second later, the woods answered with a dull, distant whump and the sound of trees being ripped apart. Black smoke started to climb through the needles, slow at first, then thickening like a bruise spreading across the sky.
For a brief moment, there were cheers and hard laughter, signifying not joy but relief. They were celebrating the one thing that had gone their way in a day full of things going wrong.
Mercer didn’t cheer. He watched the tree line, waiting for the second gunship, the follow-on, the surprise. He knew helicopters flew in pairs. Why would this battle be any different? Come on, where is your partner?
Someone yelled something in Swedish that Mercer didn’t understand; then the same voice shouted in English, “Reload! Reload! Keep them under fire!” A squad somewhere was still firing in measured bursts, hitting enemy soldiers the moment they left cover.
The enemy fire slackened, then spiked, then slackened again. It sounded like a wave pulling back from shore. He recognized the rhythm, what it meant. His eyes confirmed it as he watched pairs of enemy soldiers lay down suppressive fire while their comrades ran past them, retreating into the forest. The enemy was withdrawing, bounding in reverse—one squad at a time.
Just then, Mercer’s radio crackled to life with fragmented traffic—call signs, short contact reports, somebody asking for a medic. He forced his focus onto it, trying to assemble the picture it told as he verified positions on his map.
If he couldn’t see the whole battlefield, he needed to at least see the slice that mattered—his slice, his people and the ground they were battling on.
Captain (Hv) Bertil Sonevang—Bertil to everyone who knew him—appeared through the smoke and movement. He looked to Mercer like one of those Hollywood war heroes—a day-old shave, his helmet strap loose, and his face streaked with dirt and face paint. He looked wild-eyed for half a second, then pointed toward the enemy line with excitement he couldn’t hide.
“They’re breaking, Alex! They’re falling back!” Bertil shouted excitedly. “Look—they’re pulling away!”
Mercer followed his finger, observing how they moved—low, disciplined, using the tree belts and hedgerows for cover. They weren’t running in a panic. They weren’t abandoning their wounded. What he saw confirmed his suspicions. This was a professional unit
Crap…we’re not facing a force of poorly trained conscripts, Mercer realized. This unit knows what it’s doing…
Bertil’s easy smile changed to a look of concern when he eyed Mercer. His expression tightened, excitement replaced with concern for a friend.
“Alex,” he said, voice lower now. “Are you all right? Do you need a medic?”
Mercer stared at him for a beat, blinking as his brain tried to catch up. He wiped his cheek for the first time. On his glove was a smear of blood…his blood.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “Just a minor cut. I’ll be fine, Bertil. How are your soldiers?”
“A bit worse for wear, but what do you expect? That helicopter might be Russian, but those were PLA Marines that attacked us,” Bertil began to explain. “We stopped them, and that’s what matters. But, Alex, what do you think we should do next? Reinforce our position here and get ready to repel another attack, or pursue them and finish them off?”
Mercer tried to think about that for a moment. His head hurt, and his body felt like he’d been kicked in his sleep. He returned his gaze to Bertil. “No, we shouldn’t pursue,” he answered. “We don’t have the support or the forces to do it. Unless our orders have changed, we’re supposed to fight a delaying action. Give ground when necessary but not allow the enemy to pin us down where their artillery can finish us off.”
He paused, then retrieved his map from earlier.
Motioning for Bertil and Holloway to look at the document, he pointed to a point a few kilometers to their rear. “Let’s pull back here. We’ll reset our positions and see what they do next.”
“Alex, we just stopped them. Kicked them in the teeth. We lost soldiers and friends defending this place, and now you want us to give up?” asked Bertil in surprise. “How is this part of the plan?”
“Bertil, did you notice how those soldiers withdrew?” Holloway quizzed before Mercer could respond. When Bertil stared blankly at him, Holloway explained. “That unit wasn’t a ragtag force. You said earlier those are PLA Marines. If their Marine battalions are like ours, they’ll have organic artillery ashore. Do you understand what I’m saying? We need to move before this place lights up with 155mm party favors, if you catch my drift.”
Suddenly Bertil’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh, you’re right. We better get out of here, then.” He turned instantly, barking orders in Swedish, passing word along to the remaining Strv 122s and CV90s that it was time to go.
“Dan, my head’s a little foggy still,” said Mercer. “I’m going to climb into that ISV and drink some water. Pass the word to platoon sergeants to get our people loaded into the vehicles and let’s get out of Dodge before the King of Battle makes his appearance.” Mercer stood, wobbling a little before stabilizing himself.
Holloway gave him a nod. He knew the enemy had their grid and disposition. The last thing an infantry unit wanted to face was artillery in the open. Nothing could wipe a unit out faster than exploding steel rain falling from the sky. It was time to move and relocate before that could happen.
After Mercer climbed into the vehicle, he reached for the radio handset. “All Blackjack elements, this is Blackjack Six. Break contact. I say again, all Blackjack elements, break contact. We’re relocating ASAP, before enemy artillery arrives. Load the wounded first. Grab ammo and anything else of value. Let’s move, people. I want us on the road in a few minutes.”
“Valkyrie One copies.”
“Spectre One copies.”
“Reaper One copies.”
“Gravedigger One copies.”
Then the call he’d been dreading cut through the net.
“Blackjack Six, this is Reaper One. Priority urgent surgical. One critical. Doc says his leg’s shredded. He’s stable for now, but he won’t hold without evac.”
Mercer’s jaw locked. His stomach turned. He glanced toward the forming vehicle line, then down at his hands. Not again. I’m not losing another one.
“Reaper One, Blackjack Six. Good copy.” He paused a second. “Is the doc with you?”
“Affirmative. Angels in Bravo Two-Zero-Nine with the casualty.”
Mercer exhaled once. His decision was made. “Reaper One, Blackjack Six—listen up. Find out from the doc if you’ve got any other urgent surgical. Load them into Two-Zero-Nine. Break.”
He switched nets. “Blackjack Seven, this is Blackjack Six.” Pick up, Tanner…
“Send it,” replied First Sergeant Elijah Tanner.
“Top, you’re riding in Two-Zero-Nine. Link up with Angel and push to Visby Hospital. The airfield’s still down. Nine-line’s out of the question—it’s us or nothing. Help Angel treat ’em en route. Don’t stop unless you have to. Then get back to us ASAP.”
A new voice cut in—Sergeant First Class Daniel “Doc” Reyes. “Blackjack Six, Angel. I’m with Reaper now. We can’t wait. He needs fluids. Tourniquets are tight, but he’s bleeding out the longer we wait. I’ll ride with Top and keep pushing fluids to the hospital.”
“Copy. Keep him alive,” Mercer replied.
“Top, see if you can set a new speed record for the battalion—now get out of here.”
“Blackjack Seven copies,” Tanner replied confidently. “Two-Zero-Nine on the move.”
Mercer watched as Tanner pulled his vehicle out of the line and took off like a bat out of hell. The Visby Hospital was twenty-six kilometers away—sixteen minutes there. Sixteen minutes back if nothing happened along the way or delayed them in Visby.
Lord, protect them while they move and keep us safe until they return, he silently prayed, hoping he’d made the right call, sending his doc and first sergeant away right before another fight.
A CV90 reversed into the trees, turret scanning, its engine growling low. The lone surviving Strv 122 pivoted to cover their movement, its 120mm cannon held steady on the treeline, where the wreckage of Ka-52 still burned.
Mercer watched the Swedish vehicles withdrawing from their positions, counting the surviving vehicles. His soldiers were paratroopers, light infantry. They lacked the organic firepower necessary to repel an invasion. The CV90 infantry fighting vehicles and the Strv 122 main battle tanks were the only armor on Gotland. They were the only real firepower they had.
How many armored vehicles are left? How many soldiers did they lose? The questions ran through Mercer’s head without answer. His thoughts raced to things outside of his control.
A CV90 followed by a tank lurched forward, back onto the trail that would lead to hardball as it picked up speed. Once they were on Route 143, they could move more swiftly to their next position and disappear into the woods.
Holloway hopped into the driver’s seat a second later. A handful of soldiers piled in the back behind Mercer. “That’s the last of our guys. We’re ready to roll, sir,” Holloway confirmed.
“All Blackjack elements, Blackjack Six. Let’s roll. Maintain your spacing. Don’t bunch up.” Mercer turned to Holloway. “Get us moving, Dan. Let’s get out of here before they bracket the place with artillery. We’ve been here too long as it is.”
Holloway didn’t argue. He just drove. It was a bittersweet moment, abandoning a position they’d fought hard to hold and lost people doing it. But Mercer’s logic was sound. If the enemy had artillery, and it almost certainly did, they needed to be gone before it arrived.
As the convoy snaked its way through the logging trail back to the highway, Mercer keyed the mic one more time. “All Blackjack elements, watch the sky. Keep an eye out for drones. Assume they’ve got eyes on us.”
Holloway gunned it and the vehicle lurched forward. Branches scraped along the sides. Leaves slapping the sides until they reached road.
For once, Mercer was glad it was cloudy. He turned briefly to look back. Smoke was still rising from the wrecked vehicles they’d left behind, reminders of the battle they’d fought. Off in the horizon, he saw more smoke, thick black smoke rising from multiple areas. He had no idea what was burning or whether the fires were on their side or in enemy territory.
He felt bad for the people of Gotland. They had failed their mission, failed to deter the enemy, and failed to prevent this from happening.
Mercer sighed as he touched the side of his head.
Set an ambush point. Wait until the enemy approaches. Hit ’em hard, Alex. Then rinse and repeat. He could still hear Brenner’s orders. He understood the plan. He even agreed with it in principle. But as a paratrooper and a former Ranger, it grated on him, giving ground to buy time.
“Oh damn! Look at that arty coming in hot and heavy!” shouted a soldier behind Mercer.
“Good call, Captain. They’re hammering the place,” Holloway said, his eyes fixed to the road with occasional looks to the sky, searching for drones.
The sounds of thunderous booms washed over the convoy, shaking the ground beneath the vehicle. It was a reminder of the death they’d just cheated.
“Sir, did we do good today?” one of Mercer’s soldiers asked as the convoy snaked its way through the woods.
Mercer turned to look at the young guy who’d just spoken, a PFC who looked barely old enough to shave. “Private, we just kicked a battalion of Marines in the face and lived to tell about it. Anytime you live through a fight like that… that’s a good day.”
*******
Bravo Company, 2-503rd Infantry Regiment
West of Gurfiles, Central Gotland, Sweden
Secondary Ambush Position
Ten minutes later, the artillery was still talking, the ground still shaking. The thundering of explosions rolled in behind them—dull at first, then sharper, like the guns had settled into a rhythm, smashing this beautiful island.
Mercer rode the bumps with his teeth clenched, one hand hooked around the tubular frame of the M1301, the other resting on his chest rig as if holding himself in place. The ISV wasn’t a truck. It was a stripped-down dune buggy built for speed and bad ground—as such, it had no armor, no doors, and no “inside.” The harnesses and metal bars did little to create a feeling of security as the forest tore past them in green streaks.
He forced his eyes to keep working, to keep searching the canopy for the telltale speck of a drone. The headache behind his eyes hadn’t gone away, but it was smaller now. He tasted blood when he swallowed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind him how close he’d been to becoming another shape in the field.
Behind him, the private who’d asked if they’d done well sat quietly now. Instead of asking more questions, he kept his hands busy, his thumb sliding along the magazine’s window, topping off rounds like it was a ritual that kept death away. Next to him, the squad’s M250 gunner fastened another hundred-round pouch to his IBA. No one talked. No one joked. They just prepared for the next fight.
Holloway kept driving like he could outrun the next problem. Every few seconds, his head cut up and left, up and right—sky check, drone check—then back to the trail before it swallowed them.
Ahead, the forest track dipped and tightened. The convoy stretched in staggered spacing—ISVs and JLTVs weaving under the canopy, Swedish armor rumbling in the rear like angry gods. The Strv 122s didn’t fit the road so much as they forced it to accept their bulk, rubber-padded tracks smearing scuff marks in the asphalt before hiding in the logging trails deeper into the forest.
Mercer keyed his handset. “Blackjack elements, this is Blackjack Six. Stay under canopy. Eyes up. Counter-UAS team, gear ready, jammers cold until called.”
Quick replies snapped back.
“Valkyrie One copies.”
“Spectre One copies.”
“Reaper One copies.”
“Gravedigger One copies.”
Holloway cut in on the company net, clipped and sharp. “I want everyone off the trucks in ten seconds once we halt. Security first. Wounded stay with vehicles until the perimeter’s set.”
Mercer glanced past Holloway toward the JLTV. Top was already gone—out ahead, pushing hard toward Visby with their urgent surgical, Doc riding with him. No birds. No nine-line. Just tires on the road, driving like a bat out of hell could replace an airlift.
It was the right call, racing him to Visby. It still left a bad taste in Mercer’s mouth, but what choice did he have?
The trail bent left, dipped, then climbed a shallow rise. Light dimmed as the canopy tightened. Then the ground fell away into a shallow bowl of terrain, a fold in the forest that threatened to swallow them. A hedgerow ran across the far side like a scar, with a tree belt behind it, dark and thick.
As they continued to approach, they saw someone waiting for them, beckoning them in.
Two squads of engineers—Castle’s people from the 54th—were already there, sweaty and muddy, working like men possessed with shovels in their hands. A compact loader sat underneath the tree line, its engine off, bucket still crusted with wet soil. Fresh berms ran in low arcs—some log-reinforced, packed hard, cut just high enough for a Strv 122 to nose in and fight hull-down. Two more revetments sat offset for CV90s, narrow firing lanes chopped through brush and marked with engineer tape you couldn’t see unless you knew where to look.
A Castle squad leader jogged up as the first ISVs rolled in. His face was smeared with dirt, eyes bright with urgency.
“Captain Mercer?”
Mercer raised a hand. “Here.”
“Berms are set for three tanks and two IFVs. Primary lanes are cut. We’ve got alternate hides thirty meters back if they start dropping steel on this line. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll hold.”
Mercer nodded. “That’s good work, and fast.”
“Yeah, no time for pretty. We gotta get back to work,” the engineer said, then sprinted back to his team.
The convoy slid into concealment with practiced silence. Strv 122s angled into their berms one at a time, just as they’d practiced hundreds of times before. CV90s tucked into the revetments, engines off, batteries on. ISVs and JLTVs pushed deeper into the tree belt, masked by branches and netting further back, away from the firing line.
Holloway was out the moment the ISV came to a stop—boots down, hand chopping the air with practiced precision.
“Grab the gear! Stingers, Javelins, Serpent launchers and rockets—anything that makes a tank go boom!” Holloway snapped. “Let’s Airborne! Perimeter, now!”
Paratroopers flowed into the trees in pairs and threes, filling lanes and sectors like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times. A Javelin team slid into a shallow scrape facing Route 143. A Stinger gunner found a thin window of sky under the canopy break. A SMAW team got their Serpent launcher set while MG338 teams staged belts and spare barrels set to provide overlapping fields of fire on the far hedgerow.
Mercer stepped down. His legs wobbled for half a beat, then he forced them steady. The headache pushed at the back of his eyes, but it wasn’t taking him out anymore. The Ranger candy finally kicked in—a pair of 800 mg Motrins and his headache was almost gone.
A medic moved toward him.
Mercer held up a finger. “Later. Security first.”
The medic didn’t like it, but he nodded and moved toward the new contact line.
Holloway leaned in close. “We’ll be set in a couple of minutes,” he said quietly.
“Good,” Mercer said. “How are we on casualties and equipment?”
Holloway retrieved his notepad. “One KIA. Four walking wounded. You’re one of ’em—don’t argue. Vehicles all moving. One JLTV comms antenna cluster is half sheared, but it’s still pushing traffic.”
Mercer’s jaw tightened. “The Swedes?”
Holloway flicked his eyes toward the armor in hull-down positions. “They took it hard during that last attack. One Strv burned. Two CV90s hit. We’re lucky they kept a couple of tanks and IFVs tucked in the woods here.” He pointed them out. “We might not have had any armor if they hadn’t.”
Mercer watched as Bertil checked on his soldiers, shouting in Swedish, pointing soldiers into positions. The man looked like he was made for this very moment.
“I need to check in with Battalion. Let ’em know we displaced to our secondary position,” announced Mercer, reaching for the radio handset in the vehicle. He keyed the battalion net. “Rock Main, this is Blackjack Six. How copy?”
Static, then the TOC came back, strained but clear. “Blackjack Six, Rock Main. Go.”
Mercer kept it tight—no emotion, just the facts. “We broke contact at Gurfiles Three and displaced west under canopy to a Sjonhem Two. Current disposition: three Strv 122, two CV90. Status: one KIA, four WIA walking. One urgent surgical en route to Visby with company first sergeant and Doc. All vehicles operational, minor damage to one JLTV. Enemy disengaged in a disciplined bound; assessed as PLA Marines. Enemy artillery impacting Gurfiles Three. How copy?”
A beat passed, then Rock Main answered. “Copy all. Solid displacement. Continue with established—do not get fixed. Rock Six is tracking your reports.”
Mercer swallowed. “Roger. We’ll hold and reset.”
“Rock Main out.”
He released the handset and looked across the trees toward Bertil.
Bertil had stepped up beside him without Mercer hearing it. The guy was quiet as a ninja until he spoke. “They’re still shelling the old position,” Bertil said in English.
“Yep,” Mercer replied. “Means we’re still alive.”
Bertil gave a humorless grunt. “For now.”
The forest seemed to tighten around them. The soldiers started to breathe quieter. Fingers settled on safeties, everyone waiting for whatever came next.
“Oi, Bertil, come here,” Mercer called to get Bertil, waving a hand to get his attention.
Bertil ran in a low crouch past one of their tanks hidden behind a berm. The trio of Leopard 2A5s lay hidden behind the ridge, their 120mm cannons and optics watching and waiting for any sign of the enemy.
Bertil crouched low next to the tree, breathing hard when his radio chirped. A voice in Swedish barely above a whisper caught his immediate attention. Raising a hand up, he listened intently as the person on the other end spoke, quickly and urgently.
Mercer watched his eyes narrow, then he answered rapidly, voice sharp and clipped. He turned back to Mercer.
“One of my Home Guard scouts,” Bertil explained. “He’s got a report from east of here.”
Mercer leaned in. “Talk to me.”
Bertil pressed the handset again, switching to English, so Mercer could understand what he was asking and the response. “Say again in English, Hök Three.”
“Company-plus formation moving toward Sjonhem Two. Mix of amphibious carriers and armor.”
Mercer felt the cold settle deeper in his chest. “What kind of armor?”
Bertil’s eyes stayed locked on the trees, like he could already see them coming through the hedgerows. “Hök Three, what kind of armor?”
“ZSD-05 carriers. ZBD-04 IFVs. Type 96 main battle tanks.” A short pause. “And Type 15 light tanks.”
The words landed one at a time, heavy and final—a company-plus, with armor.
Mercer let out a breath through his nose that wasn’t quite a laugh. Then he looked at his Swedish counterpart and said, “Well, this day just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?”
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