The Gotland Deception

Book 1: A World on Fire

by James Rosone

Genres: War & Military; Military Thrillers; High-tech & Sci-fi Thrillers; war; A I; NATO; World on Fire Series; Conflict; Robotics; Future of modern warfare

Synopsis

The world was on fire.
It didn’t matter who started it…
…only who ended it.

In the 2030s, the era of Putin and Xi ended, not with a bang, but in a poisoned whisper. In their place, new leaders emerged—charismatic, technocratic, and unflinchingly bold. As Russia and China purged their past, crushing the oligarchy, an alliance for future control emerged.

Rare earth minerals had become the currency of the 21st century—whoever controlled them would dominate the future. From energy to data centers, microchips to autonomous weapons, all the world powers raced to see who would come out on top.

World War III had already begun…
…even if no one realized it yet.

Angola, Svalbard, Palawan, and Taiwan were more than just names on a map. They were the frontlines to a proxy war to control the means of production. These pawns on the chessboard would determine the technology of the future.

The Portuguese President was killed in Angola. A Dutch warship was sunk near the Philippines. A Chinese vessel sabotaged undersea cables near Gotland. NATO was forced to respond.

Would the newly formed Eurasian Defense Economic Pact reshape the world?
Could the US and NATO extinguish the flames of war before it was too late?

Find out what happens next in The Gotland Deception, a chillingly plausible technothriller thriller from the international bestselling authors of The Monroe Doctrine series and Battlefield Ukraine.

Release date: July 28, 2025

Publisher: Front Line Publishing, Inc.

Print pages: 357

Sample

Author’s Note:

 

In the coming months, we will likely release some battle maps and similar types of materials that will further enhance the reading experience and excitement of this series. You can sign up to our free, members only section on our website (www.frontlinepublishinginc.com). This is where future maps and other materials will be made available, along with our Patreon page.

 

I am putting together a research and reader trip to Taiwan, that will take place in the summer of 2026. If you are interested in participating in this trip, please sign up to our newsletter, so you will know when we announce the details of the trip. You can do that via our website, www.frontlinepublishinginc.com

 

Disclaimer: Although the story is based on events that could happen in the world, the story is entirely fictional and should be treated as such. This is a work of fiction. All events, characters, and organizations depicted are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. While this novel incorporates real-world military platforms, defense systems, technologies, and companies, all references are based solely on publicly available information as of the time of writing.

No company, government agency, or defense contractor has sponsored, endorsed, or contributed to the development of this book. The inclusion of specific weapons systems, autonomous platforms, unmanned vehicles, software systems, or commercial entities is for fictional and narrative purposes only. The scenarios depicted represent the author’s creative interpretation of how such technologies could be employed by US, allied, or adversarial forces in a future, hypothetical conflict.

Nothing in this book should be construed as reflecting actual plans, capabilities, or endorsements by any military, governmental, or corporate entity. All opinions expressed are solely those of the authors.

 

Chapter One:
The Dragon and the Bear

 

December 23, 2032

Shelby Restaurant

Blagoveshchensk, Russia

 

The cold bit deep, settling into Pan Min-jae’s bones. He knew this was a dangerous game, but he had played it for years, slipping in and out of places men like him were never meant to be. But tonight was different. Tonight, he had witnessed men of power rarely seen together—Kuznetsov, Zhang, Sokolov.

Something big is about to happen, he realized. But what?

Pan moved with haste after leaving the restaurant, his hands buried in the pockets of his wool coat. He turned the phone on, waiting for the familiar buzz in his hand to let him know it had connected to its satellite cellular network. His thumb twitched, cigarette trembling as he dragged deep, nicotine steadying his nerves. With a casual tap, he synced the parabolic mic in his glasses, the fifty-meter range capturing every whisper from the Shelby’s back room.

Next, he toggled to the encrypted messaging app on his phone to attach the photos and a short message to go along with the pictures of the men present at the restaurant—Kuznetsov mentioned Dragon Bear—something big is happening. Will transmit more soon. Then he pressed send.

There were more details to share, like the audio files the parabolic mic had captured, but these were much larger files, so he sent the photos first. He’d let the messaging app work on attaching the audio files after he’d retreated to his safe house, where he could take time to think about the meeting, the various men who were present, and what it all meant. If he was lucky, the camera built into his glasses might have recorded most of the meeting before he’d left.

Something about this meeting hadn’t felt right, and the longer he stayed at the restaurant, the more his instincts were screaming at him to run. As he continued to walk his countersurveillance route, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

Too quick, he realized. Too close.

There was a shift in the air right before he heard the scrape of shoes. Pan perceived the low hum of a man flirting in Russian, and the subtle but unmistakable pull of someone moving in tandem with him.

Pan turned slightly and caught a glimpse of a couple laughing, swaying in the glow of streetlamps dotting the sidewalk. Then he thought he caught a momentary glint of light reflecting off the steel edge of a knife.

Just as Pan was reacting to the danger of a blade, pain lanced through his back, sharp and burning. His breathing locked. His legs buckled. A second thrust went deeper. Pan’s phone clattered to the pavement. His vision blurred, the darkness curling in as he clawed for the device, fingers trembling.

With all the strength he had left, he tried to reach for the phone—tried to transmit his intel. But a boot slid forward, pressing heavily against the device. The audible crunch of glass and plastic shattered his last hope of sending the message.

Just then, he heard a deep voice murmur above him. “He won’t be completing his spy mission tonight.”

The woman he’d spotted as part of the flirtatious couple knelt beside him and began to rifle through his pockets. The last thing Pan saw was the smirk on her face before the void swallowed him whole.

*******

 

Shelby Restaurant

 

Kirill Andreyevich Kuznetsov swirled his vodka, watching the way the liquid caught the dim golden light. Around him, five men sat in quiet anticipation, their faces carved from stone, waiting for the final act of the evening.

The room smelled of cedar, old smoke, and history soaked into the very foundation of the building. Deals had been made here, wars whispered into existence over a toast and the flick of a wrist. It was such an unassuming place to hold such meetings that it had gone unnoticed until now.

The heavy oak door creaked open again, a momentary gust of frigid air sweeping into the room before it was promptly closed. The man entering was Dmitry Mirov, his deputy and head of Special Operations for National Security Affairs. The man better known as The Undertaker walked confidently toward them, his movements unhurried, his expression unreadable. He stepped around the table to Kuznetsov’s side and took his seat, then reached for his Beluga Epicure, downing the vodka before leaning in to whisper, his breath barely stirring the air.

“It’s taken care of. We have his phone.”

Kuznetsov’s lip twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile. He lifted his glass. “Good.”

Seated across from Kuznetsov was Zhang Weihao, the director of the Central National Security Commission. He slowly sipped tea, his expression carefully neutral.

Zhang studied Kuznetsov as if searching for the invisible strings he was pulling. The air in the room thickened, the weight of decisions made pressing upon them all.

“Let’s talk about Taiwan—you’re certain this strategy of yours will not interfere with our plans?” Kuznetsov asked Zhang, hoping for a straight answer. “Goryunov has spent years preparing for this. It can’t be derailed at the last minute.”

“You can be assured, Kuznetsov, that our wayward province will not derail the grand strategy,” Zhang said dismissively. “Besides, the naval units involved are not drawn from our North Sea Fleet. They have no impact or interaction with the Arctic operation.”

“Still, it is an unnecessary risk right before things begin,” Kuznetsov countered, unconvinced this sideshow wouldn’t bleed over into their carefully laid plans. Too much was at risk for this to fail at the last moment.

Zhang stared at him for a moment, not saying anything. “The time to settle the Taiwan issue is now,” he finally explained. “With our joint plan underway, Europe and America will be powerless to intervene—a hostage to circumstances beyond their control. Besides, the plan has been in motion for years. It is too far along for us to turn back.”

Kuznetsov raised an eyebrow in surprise. When he spoke, his voice was like tempered steel. “Hmm, then we best hope your plan works. This year, this moment—we won’t have a better time to act than now. In eighteen weeks, the world as we know it will be gone. And a new world will be reborn in its place—one led not by the West but by the East.” Zhang set his cup down with deliberate precision. “The Americans will be overextended. They will scramble when it begins, but they will not know where to defend.”

Mirov poured himself another drink, his smirk barely concealed. “They still believe in their markets. By the time they understand, their economy will already be in flames.”

Lieutenant General Sergei Orlov sat back in his chair as he rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “The simulations are complete,” he added. “NATO’s response time is predictable. They will hesitate.” His gaze flicked toward Zhang. “We will not.”

This was why Orlov was called The Chess Master. His mind worked several steps ahead of his opponents’. It was a skill Kuznetsov had put to good use when he’d appointed him Director of National Security Operations. The man worked in the shadows. Few knew of him; those who did feared him. He was the man who effectively ran the nation’s private military contractors.

Cuī Zemin smiled coldly as he stared at Orlov, then shifted his gaze to Kuznetsov. “When the time is right—they won’t know what hit them.”

Kuznetsov nodded to Cuī, the man known as The Ghost. Cuī was the director of the Ministry of State Security 6th Bureau—Special Affairs Division. It was Orlov and Cuī who were responsible for lighting the flames that would set the world on fire.

Raising his glass, Kuznetsov gave a final toast, the weight of history settling upon them. “Then, gentlemen… let the firestorm begin.”

The vodka burned as it went down, smooth and inevitable. The servers returned, sensing the moment was right to serve the plates of honey-drenched medovik, an indulgence before the storm was unleashed. They ate in silence, savoring the final moments before the world burned.

*******

 

December 28, 2032

Visby, Gotland

Sweden

 

For Klara Hedevig, it was just a usual Tuesday. Christmas had come and gone and now it was time to get back to work. She was up before the sun, keeping the curtains drawn as she prepared a thermos of blackcurrant herbal tea and toasted rye crispbread with foraged jam—routine, austere, and very Swedish.

From her third-floor apartment in Innerstad, the old walled city portion of Visby, Klara tracked foot and vehicle traffic along a minor route that NATO contractors had been using to reach the Gotlands Regemente (P18) depot. Using a thermal monocular and spotting scope mounted behind a discreet wool curtain, she logged plate numbers, convoy time stamps, and fuel resupply intervals, then coded her notes into her Coastal Weather Drift database. All entries appeared as wind vectors and temperature records from a weather buoy, shared weekly to a cloud repository hosted in Tallinn.

Just before dawn, Klara donned snow boots and winter gear for a short “migratory overwintering survey” of marshland just south of Visby Harbor. She carried with her thermal binoculars with birding overlays, a standard Leica scope, and a backpack-mounted omni-antenna disguised as a folded bird blind frame—used to passively scan for encrypted VHF comms from new SHORAD nodes.

Along her way, Klara encountered local joggers, retired birders, and a curious border collie or two. She greeted everyone warmly. They were all used to her habits by now. In a waterproof Rite in the Rain notebook, she jotted “bird notes.”

Having completed her cold-weather recon of equipment staging, she headed back home, defrosted her boots, and walked the few blocks over to her day job at the Baltic Resilience & Renewables Initiative. She sat down on the yoga ball seat at her upcycled desk, stretched her back, and cracked her knuckles.

She knew she had two actual grant proposals to write that day, but before she did that, Klara followed her usual ritual. She opened her laptop, logged in to a VPN, used a TOR browser to further obscure her IP address, opened the DuckDuckGo search engine, and logged in to her usual birding messaging boards. She typed up some of her real observations from her morning walk. “I spotted a small group of Bohemian waxwings near the cemetery this morning. I estimate approximately thirty females and twenty males.” Her message also held code words for her handler to interpret. She clicked through some of the other posts until she discovered one that interested her.

I finally have another message from Viktor, she realized as she noticed the specific phrasing in a post about European robins along the shaded stone walls.

Klara logged into her Tuta email account, which was fully end-to-end encrypted, including subject lines and metadata. There, in the drafts folder, was a new email waiting for her to read.

Viktor Mikhailov, her GRU/SVR handler, also knew the password to her account and had typed up a note for her. Because the email was never sent to anyone, it was basically impossible for any intelligence agencies to intercept. This was one of the main ways they had communicated for the last ten years or so.

“It is time to move ahead with the advertising campaigns for the Baltic Wings Festival,” he wrote. “Anders Ulfsson, the director of Gotland’s Visit Gotland office, has made assurances that the Baltic Wings Festival will be listed on the high-traffic Nature Events calendar. Should he give you any trouble or insist on any unreasonable vetting procedures, remind him of how much he loves skiing and ask him how he enjoyed his all-expenses paid trip to Courchevel 1850 in France.

“Further, I have approved your request for funds to rent that cluster of cabins on Fårö Island,” Viktor continued. “Once that site is set up, we will begin to send some of our preliminary RVs with equipment your way. They will camp at Lauters Hamn and make individual drop runs to our cabins with supplies.”

It’s finally becoming real, Klara thought. She had already been planning the Baltic Wings Festival for a little over a year—getting participation from other legitimate NGOs who were interested in her vision of an event that combined bird-watching with environmental talks and activities. She had arranged various illustrious speakers from all over Europe, figured out catering, security, and volunteers to run the program, and reserved various campsites, cabins and Airbnbs all over Gotland in preparation for an influx of around a thousand visitors, which was unusual for early May.

Klara gleefully turned on the advertising blitz she had arranged for the festival and opened up the registration. Soon, the money would begin pouring in, and the groundwork would finally be laid for one hundred GRU/SVR agents to flood the island all at once, traveling with various legitimate NGOs under passports from Germany, Estonia, Lithuania, Ukraine, and Poland.

Of course, there would be real attendees at her event. Klara had done a lot of groundwork, and her day job gave her the bona fides to run this event. Plus, her side project, as head of the Baltic Wings NGO, cemented her as a staunch environmentalist and a lover of birds, so she’d easily snagged Dr. Anu Ristmägi of the Estonian Ornithological Institute and Dr. Elias Thorne, professor of environmental systems at the University of Kiel, Germany, among others.

She went over the program for the Baltic Wings Festival once more, making sure she had all her t’s crossed. Not only did each site hold very real interest for bird and nature lovers, each had some proximity that would provide strategic tactical advantage. For example, the activities she had advertised for Fårö Island highlighted the migration routes of the ruff, which was known for its showy breeding plumage and lek behavior, flaunting extravagant head tufts and collar feathers in open marshes. At the same time, agents on the island would enjoy a strategic position where there were very few law enforcement personnel to make any sort of resistance.

When she was finished with those initial tasks, Klara decided it was time for a break and walked to St. Hans Café, situated next to the St. Hans church ruin that she frequently visited, especially during the warmer months, when the café had outdoor seating set up in the ruins itself. It made for a great ambience when meeting with academic liaisons or hosting “sustainability fellows.”

“By yourself today, Klara?” asked the manager, a woman named Annika Bragefeldt.

“Yes,” Klara responded with a smile. “I just finished some major tasks for BRRI, and I thought I should celebrate.”

“Ah, well, we are happy to have you on this dreary January morning,” Annika replied. “Do you want the usual?”

“Yes, please,” answered Klara.

“One St. Hans Blend with Gotländsk Saffranspannkaka, coming up,” said Annika.

Soon, Klara had her hands around a mug of warm tea and a beloved Gotland specialty—a saffron pancake served warm, made from rice pudding, cream, saffron, and egg, topped with local dewberry jam. It was very traditional—a cultural heritage dish that balanced austerity with indulgence, like the island itself.

Annika was a retired teacher turned café manager, and a bit of a busybody. Always suspicious of outsiders, she kept meticulous records and had her eye on everything. Klara had managed to get on her good side by being extremely predictable and showing her true love of all things Gotland. Later, she would talk Annika into sharing all the new local gossip with her.

Klara smiled. It’s all paying off, she realized. All these years of habits, of tiny rituals, had allowed her to hide in plain sight…and now she was ready to spring her trap.

*******

 

Twelve Years Earlier

October 2020

Eurasian Climate Youth Summit

Riga, Latvia

 

The breakout room smelled faintly of wet coats, cheap coffee, and ambition. Klara Hedevig sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, the required six feet away from a UN volunteer from Estonia and a “rewilding specialist” from Kyrgyzstan who kept quoting Žižek between sips of birch sap tonic. His mask hung from one ear whenever he drank, and he promptly put it back on after each sip. Around her, twenty young, masked climate delegates debated decarbonization equity frameworks in the Baltic–Black Sea corridor.

But Klara wasn’t listening anymore. Her gaze was fixed on the man near the bookshelf, in the gray wool blazer with the pale pink tie: Dr. Sergei Anatolyev, introduced earlier as a visiting lecturer from the Saint Petersburg Institute of Eco-Geopolitics.

He had asked only one question during the last session—but it sliced through the fluff like a hawk through mist.

“If EU green transition funds are being used to build LNG terminals in Klaipėda and Świnoujście, are we really discussing energy resilience—or just NATO logistics in disguise?” he’d probed.

That was when Klara had first looked up.

Now, as the group dispersed for lunch, he crossed the room toward her.

“You’re the student from Lund, yes? The LUMES program?” he asked, voice low, warm. He spoke precise English, but with a slight Russian accent.

“Yes,” Klara replied, cautious but curious. “Klara Hedevig.”

He nodded. “You spoke earlier about Gotland’s offshore wind potential. Your passion was clear.”

“Not that it matters,” she said, a little sharper than she meant to. “Sweden just approved a military expansion zone over the best wind corridor. NATO takes priority.”

Dr. Anatolyev chuckled quietly. “Spoken like someone who still believes the system should live up to its promises.”

She wasn’t sure if he was mocking her—but she didn’t recoil.

“I read your name in the delegate list,” he continued, producing a slim pamphlet from his satchel. It was a Russian-language academic quarterly titled Geopolitika i Ekosfera. He opened it to a page he had dog-eared.

“This piece,” he said, tapping a paragraph. “It made me think of your thesis abstract. Disrupted migration routes, pipeline conflict zones, the NATO-fossil linkage. You might find it… clarifying.”

Klara flipped the page. The article was titled “Green Empires and Gray Militaries: Western Ecology as Strategic Hegemony.”

Her eyes scanned the first few lines—references to Lithuanian radar emissions, Polish shale gas corridors, avian behavioral shifts across NATO air bases…

She looked up at him. “You’ve read my abstract?”

“I make it a point to study promising minds,” he said simply. “Especially those that haven’t yet been dulled by institutional compromise.”

He smiled again, almost fatherly.

“There’s a reception tonight,” he added. “Nothing official. Just a few of us—independent researchers. Eurasian, Central European, postcolonial climate voices. You might enjoy it more than the recycled net-zero slogans in the plenary hall.”

Klara hesitated.

“Where?” she finally asked.

He passed her a folded slip of paper. Just an address and a time.

“No pressure,” he said. “But I suspect you’ll find the conversation… more honest.”

And with that, he left her standing in the corner of a Baltic conference room, holding a Russian ecology journal in one hand and a handwritten invitation in the other—her first breadcrumb down a path she didn’t yet know she’d follow.

But she would.

*******

 

That Evening

 

The building wasn’t marked. All she found was a lacquered green door beside a closed flower shop on Ģertrūdes Street, a few blocks from the city center. There was no banner, no NGO flag—just a small sticker on the door that read “Common Ground Baltic.”

Inside, she found warm lighting, quiet jazz, and the low hum of conversation in at least four languages.

Klara paused just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of how Scandinavian she looked—tall, windblown, carrying a canvas bag filled with summit notes and a copy of Doughnut Economics.

Then someone approached—a woman in her late thirties, dark hair tied back, black mask, no visible makeup around her eyes, Baltic-knit sweater and felted wool skirt.

“You must be Klara,” she said.

Her accent was hard to place. Is she Latvian? Klara wondered. Russian? But neither quite fit.

“I’m Irina,” said the woman. “Sergei mentioned you might come.”

Klara smiled cautiously beneath her mask. “I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome.”

Irina’s eyes sparkled. “You are exactly the kind of person we welcome.”

She gestured toward the gathering. There were maybe thirty people scattered between couches and standing tables, sipping tea or Georgian wine. No one wore a lanyard. A small projector flickered slides on the back wall—photographs of steppe fires, flooded grain fields, and black oil lines slicing through bird migration maps.

One slide read, “Kazakhstan: Migratory Disruption in the Trans-Caspian Axis.”

Klara blinked.

“That’s my thesis topic,” she said aloud.

Irina tilted her head. “Then perhaps you’re already one of us.”

They sat together on a small settee beneath a bookshelf lined with Russian-language climate theory and old Worldwatch Institute reports. Klara noticed a sticker on one of the mugs that read, “There is no neutrality in ecological collapse.”

“Tell me,” Irina said, pouring herbal tea into mismatched ceramic cups, “do you believe your government is serious about saving the climate?”

Klara hesitated. She’d said things—angry things—in dorm rooms and in student forums. But this was different.

“I believe they’re serious about pretending,” she said. “Sweden talks like Greta. Spends like Exxon. We green-wash our missiles now.”

Irina gave a slow nod. “You see clearly, then. Most don’t, not at your age.”

Klara looked down at her tea. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being told to organize deck chairs on the Titanic,” she said quietly. “And if I say that out loud, I get uninvited from grant panels.”

“And what if,” Irina said, “there were ways to do more than just ‘organize chairs’?”

Klara glanced up. Irina’s voice was gentle—never forceful.

“Ways to right the ship?” Klara asked.

“To fix the berg hole in it,” Irina corrected. “To save the passengers.”

Irina leaned in slightly.

“We don’t need saboteurs, Klara. We need witnesses with access. Architects who’ve read the blueprints. You don’t need to shout. You need to see, and pass it along.”

Klara felt something stir in her—recognition…respect.

“I’m not a spy,” she said reflexively.

“No,” Irina replied. “You’re a scientist. An idealist. That’s much more useful.”

A young man nearby asked Irina a question in Russian, and she excused herself to answer. Klara sat in silence, watching the projector switch to a grainy photo of a US airfield carved into wetlands outside Constanța, Romania. Below it was a graphic of displaced stork migratory routes.

While she was watching the slideshow, someone placed a small handwritten card on the table beside Klara. “Field Ecology Exchange: Central Asia. Spring semester. Eurasian Avian Corridors Grant. Full stipend.”

It was an opportunity, an open door. Klara traced the paper’s edge with her fingertip.

She wouldn’t decide tonight. But she already knew which way the wind was blowing.

*******

 

May 2022

Avian Migration Research Post

Foothills of the Zailiyskiy Alatau Mountains

Outside Almaty, Kazakhstan

 

The birds always came just after sunrise—no matter how many times Klara Hedevig checked the tracking data the night before, it was never the GPS tags or the drones that gave them away first. It was always the horizon—the widening shimmer of wings catching heat against snowcapped ridgelines.

She raised her binoculars, following the ragged line of demoiselle cranes as they coasted low over the scrub, angling east along the same corridor as the pipelines below. Feathers and fossil fuels traced the same paths—her thesis was practically writing itself now.

Suddenly, there was a female voice behind her: calm, precise, low frequency. “You left your GPS enabled yesterday. That’s three times this month.”

Klara didn’t turn. “It was intentional. I needed to draw the motorbike off.”

Irina’s boots crunched closer. Klara glanced back. Irina wasn’t wearing a jacket today—just her long gray sweater-coat and sun-scorched trousers. She held no visible weapon, but Klara assumed she still carried the ceramic folder knife in her boot.

“And the rider?” Irina asked.

“Lost him in the open market. Took the service road, looped through the back of the tech bazaar. Dropped the burner in a clearance crate of Nokia chargers.”

Irina stepped beside her. “And if it wasn’t a drill?”

Klara didn’t answer immediately. The cranes were fading now, gliding out of visible range toward the eastern steppes.

“I wouldn’t have stopped at the market,” she said quietly. “I would have used the gravel spill near the depot to lay down the spare phone, cracked it open, stripped the battery, and left the SIM in the nearest drainage slit, then walked through the fuel corridor checkpoint wearing the survey jacket, not the field vest.”

Irina said nothing at first, then gave a small, approving nod. “Better.”

They stood in silence for a few moments more.

Then Irina offered a sealed envelope.

“Your assignment.”

Klara took it and slit it open with her thumbnail. Inside were a profile photo, two names, and a loosely redacted itinerary for a Czech-funded NGO biodiversity director visiting the Korgalzhyn Biosphere Reserve.

“Why him?” Klara asked.

“Because his satellite surveys don’t match his published resolutions,” Irina replied. “Because his last trip to Georgia involved a forty-eight-hour stop in Ankara with no listed conference. And because if he’s using species tagging as a cover for field ISR, we need to know which side he’s selling to.”

Klara tucked the envelope into her weathered field manual.

“I’ll add him to the marsh team rotation,” she said. “Ask about his tracking drone specs. Play the data ethics angle.”

“And his driver?” Irina asked.

“I’ll let him follow me,” Klara responded. “See if he gets greedy.”

Irina smiled faintly. “You’re learning,” she said.

“No,” Klara replied. “I already learned. I’m just refining.”

They turned to leave the overlook. Below them, the dry plain stretched toward a half-decommissioned KazTransOil relay station—a dot on her thesis map, a keyhole for SVR signals intelligence.

Klara knew she’d spend the afternoon cataloging crane banding data, updating her academic dashboard, and submitting her nightly upload to Lund University via a clean VPN pipe routed through Novosibirsk. She also knew she’d be testing a new encrypted messaging protocol passed to her two days ago by a contact posing as a bird-tagging intern from Tatarstan.

This was her new normal now: feathered migrants by day, electronic ghosts by night.

And she loved it.

 

 

 

Chapter Two:
Presidential Finding 32-33

 

December 30, 2032 – 1647 Hours

National Security Advisor’s Office

White House

Washington, D.C.

 

The radiator clanked its familiar rhythm as National Security Advisor Jim Batista hunched over the DNI’s year-end assessment. Outside, snow fell steadily past his window, already accumulating three inches on the South Lawn. Twenty degrees and dropping—a proper D.C. winter.

He’d read the report twice already, but the numbers still seemed impossible. Russia’s GDP had grown forty-seven percent in three years. Unemployment was down from twenty-two percent to three. Infrastructure projects that would have taken decades were now completed in months. All thanks to those damned robots.

“The GR-3R ‘Drevnik’ units have revolutionized Russian industrial capacity,” the report stated in the bloodless prose of intelligence analysis. “Current estimates suggest 400,000 units operational across mining, construction, and manufacturing sectors. While these humanoid platforms demonstrate remarkable capability in civilian applications, assessment indicates they remain unsuitable for military deployment. Susceptibility to jamming, vulnerability to high-powered microwave systems, and limited autonomous decision-making restrict combat applications.”

Batista set the report aside, massaging his temples. At least that was something. Bad enough that Russia and China had formed the largest military alliance since the Warsaw Pact. If they’d managed to create an army of combat robots too…

A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Come in.”

Secretary of Defense Thomas “T. J.” Varnell entered, bringing a gust of cold air from the hallway. Snow still dusted his shoulders, a sign he’d likely come in via the West Wing basement instead of the covered entry his motorcade would typically use. If Batista had to guess, whatever Varnell’s reason for stopping over, he didn’t want it to show up in the official logs.

“Mr. Secretary.” Batista stood. Despite their long friendship, protocol mattered. Varnell outranked him in the chain of command, even if they both reported directly to the President.

“Jim.” Varnell didn’t take the offered chair. Instead, he moved to the window, watching snowflakes swirl like ash outside the West Wing office. His voice was low, edged with something Batista rarely heard from him—unease. “Did you read the President’s Daily Brief this morning?”

Batista nodded slowly, already dreading where this was going. “I take it you’re referring to the cable from the Beijing Station?”

“That’s the one.” Varnell turned, arms crossed. “The Station Chief at the embassy flagged the preliminary agenda for this year’s National People’s Congress. Buried deep in the proposed resolutions were two items—subtle, but loaded.”

Batista raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, Taiwan?”

“Bingo. But it’s worse than usual.” Varnell walked over and dropped a red-striped folder on Batista’s desk. “The details are inside. They’re reaffirming the ‘One China’ line, but they’ve taken it a step further and rewritten the language entirely. Now they’re referring to the President of Taiwan as the ‘Provincial Governor of Chinese Taiwan.’ The entire ROC government’s been downgraded to provincial officials under Beijing’s authority. It’s legal fiction—but designed for maximum humiliation.”

Batista exhaled through his nose, cold fury flashing across his face. “Damn, talk about throwing gas on a fire.”

“Yeah, and that’s not the worst of it,” Varnell continued. “The agenda includes a sweeping counter-narcotics initiative. You know that synthetic drug called Vortex—the one that’s already killed three hundred thousand Chinese youths the past six years?”

Batista nodded. “Yeah, it’s their version of our fentanyl crisis. Let me guess; they’re still blaming us for it.” 

“And more. They’re now accusing us of engineering a new Opium War.”

Batista frowned. “I’ve seen the MSS statements… I figured it was just propaganda fodder for domestic consumption.”

“It is and it isn’t. The draft enforcement plan for countering it now includes maritime inspections—targeting inbound cargo vessels from ‘non-compliant jurisdictions,’” Varnell said, quoting directly. “You want to guess which island got named.”

Batista’s gaze sharpened. “Taiwan, of course.”

Varnell nodded. “The civilian coast guard gets the lead. But the fine print authorizes the PLA Navy to support inspection operations. Refuse inspection, and the vessel is presumed complicit in narcotics smuggling. That’s the legal trick—they’re not calling it a blockade. It’s a civilian-led anti-drug enforcement effort. But we both know it’ll be used as a pretext for more.”

“Great, just what we need on top of everything else,” Batista muttered, grabbing the folder, reading it quickly. “This reads like a war plan dressed in a narcotics policy.”

“That’s what the Beijing Station Chief thinks,” Varnell replied grimly. “He believes it might be tied it to a cryptic tip we got from Seoul before their man went dark. Remember that South Korean operative—Pan Min-jae? He caught wind of a backroom meeting in Blagoveshchensk. The operative mentioned something called Dragon Bear—Russian and Chinese officials talking about coordinated something and overextending the West.”

Batista’s spine stiffened as the pieces began to fall into place. “You’re saying this might be more than some anti-drug operation?”

“I’m saying it’s a slow-rolling operation masked by lawfare and op-ed outrage. And if we’re not ready for whatever it is, come April fifteenth, the PLA Navy will be inspecting commercial vessels in the Taiwan Strait under color of law—and daring us to stop them.”

Batista looked out the frosted window, his breath fogging the glass. “Four months, huh?”

“Four and a half,” Varnell corrected quietly. “That’s all the time we’ve got to decide. Do we call their bluff, or do we let them redraw the map without firing a shot?”

Batista muttered a curse under his breath. “It’s BS, Mr. Secretary. A blockade in all but name.”

“It’s also a test.” Varnell finally sat, his movements sharp with tension. “We’ve suspected this might happen eventually. If I had to guess, Beijing wants to see if we’ll blink. If we’ll submit and accept this as a new normal,” Varnell said angrily. “Four and a half months, Jim. That’s all the time we’ve got before they start strangling Taiwan’s sea lanes and we have to make a tough choice.”

Batista muttered a curse under his breath. “It’s BS, Mr. Secretary. A blockade in all but name.”

“It’s also a test.” Varnell finally sat, his movements sharp with tension. “We’ve suspected this might happen eventually. If I had to guess, Beijing wants to see if we’ll blink. If we’ll submit and accept this as a new normal,” Varnell said angrily. “Four and a half months, Jim. That’s all the time we’ve got before they start strangling Taiwan’s sea lanes and we have to make a tough choice.”

Batista reached into his desk safe, withdrawing a folder marked with classification stamps and a single code word: AZURE SENTINEL. He slid it across to Varnell.

“Presidential Finding 32-33. Signed this morning at 0900.”

Varnell broke the seal, his eyes tracking rapidly across the authorization. His eyebrows rose. “Jesus. Five billion in black funding? Expedited weapons transfers bypassing ITAR?”

“The Taiwan Working Group gets whatever they need,” Batista confirmed. “No bureaucracy, no delays. Marcus Harrington’s people can have Roadrunners, Barracudas, Seekers—the entire autonomous arsenal fully delivered and operational before April fifteenth.”

“If the Chinese don’t sink the ships carrying them,” muttered Varnell.

“They won’t. Not yet.” Batista pulled up a map on his secure tablet. “Beijing’s not ready for that level of escalation. But come April fifteenth…”

“Yeah, I get it. Meanwhile, two weeks later, we’ve got the start of this EDEP exercise before the May Day celebration.” Varnell set the finding aside. “If these DIA reports are correct, we’re looking at two PLA Group Armies deploying to Western Russia. I’ve got EUCOM screaming for more assets. Poland wants another armored brigade on rotation during the exercise. Then the Baltics are raising hell, convinced Russia’s going to pull another 2022 and steamroll across the border.”

“What’s your gut tell you?” asked Batista, eyeing him closely.

Varnell was quiet for a moment. Outside, the snow intensified, obscuring the Washington Monument. “My gut says we’re looking at a coordinated move. China takes Taiwan while Russia annexes the Baltics, creating their long-sought-after land bridge connecting them to Kaliningrad. It’s a classic two-front dilemma, with NATO pinned down in Europe, and America stuck with a choice of going all in to help Europe or coming to the aid of our Asian partners. It’s a lose-lose situation any way you cut it.”

“Which is why TSG matters.” Batista tapped the folder. “Six hundred operators embedded with Taiwanese forces. Each one can manage twenty autonomous platforms. That’s like having twelve thousand soldiers. It’s a force multiplier that’s going to make a difference.”

“Hmm, the jury in my mind is still out on that one. Contractors, Jim… I’m not so sure about this.” Varnell’s tone carried his ongoing disapproval of the idea. “I don’t like it one bit.”

“Respectfully, you don’t have to like it, sir. You just have to make it work,” Batista replied, keeping his voice respectful but firm. “We both know we can’t put active-duty troops on Taiwan right now. Not without triggering the very war we’re trying to prevent. But PMCs? That gives us deniability. It places the decision in the hands of Taiwan.”

“Sure, until they start dying. These are Americans, nearly all of them are military veterans. If that happens, and we begin to see dead Americans in the streets of Taipei. Congress will want answers,” Varnell countered.

“Probably. But by then, it’ll be too late for hearings. The bullets and missiles will be flying.” Batista stood, moving to his wall display. Satellite imagery showed the Taiwan Strait, with PLA Navy vessels marked in red. “Look at the buildup in the ports opposite Taiwan and within five hundred kilometers of it. They’ve moved three of their four carrier groups to this area. Forty-plus amphibious vessels. This isn’t for an exercise. They’re pre-positioning assets, testing logistics, and planning an invasion.”

Varnell sighed audibly as he stood and joined him at the display. “What about our autonomous naval program? Reeves keeps promising those unmanned surface combatants will even the odds.”

“They will, but they’re still in testing. The Intrepid task group won’t be fully operational until April.” Batista highlighted friendly assets in blue. Pathetically few compared to the red swarm. “It’s our Hail Mary against their shipbuilding capacity, we’ve always known that.”

“Time, it always comes down to time we don’t have.” Varnell checked his watch. “Look, I’m supposed to brief the President in twenty minutes about this Taiwan development. What should I be telling him?”

“The truth. Tell him TSG is moving, but we’re obviously going to have to accelerate its timeline. Assure him we’ll have Taiwan hardened before the shipping inspections start,” explained Batista. “And tell him it might be helpful to pray Beijing doesn’t accelerate their timeline.”

The radiator clanked again, a counterpoint to the gravity of their discussion. Varnell picked up the presidential finding, studying it once more.

“You trust Harrington?”

“I served with him in Iraq. He’s solid.”

“He’d better be.” Varnell moved toward the door, then paused. “Jim, I’ve got the SECNAV and the Joint Chiefs breathing down my neck about force allocation. If this goes sideways, if Congress gets wind of what we’re authorizing…”

“It won’t go sideways.” Batista returned to his desk. “Marcus knows what’s at stake. TSG isn’t just defending Taiwan. They’re defending the first Island chain and our entire Pacific architecture.”

Varnell grunted, nodding slowly. “When do you brief Harrington?”

“Tonight. Crystal City, 2000 hours.” Batista glanced at the snow, now falling in thick sheets. “Weather permitting of course.”

“In this town, my friend, the weather’s the least of our problems.” Varnell buttoned his coat as he prepared to leave. “Keep me updated. And, Jim? No surprises. With another term, I’ve got a chance to fully modernize the entire Defense Department. Last thing I need is a scandal derailing everything we’ve worked toward.”

“I know. Understood, Mr. Secretary.”

After Varnell left, Batista sat alone in his office, the weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. Outside, Washington disappeared behind a curtain of white. But his mind was eight thousand miles away, on an island democracy that didn’t know it had months to prepare for war.

He pulled up the secure comms channel to TSG. Time to set the wheels in motion. Time to see if six hundred contractors and an arsenal of autonomous weapons could deter an empire.

The radiator clanked one more time, like a countdown clock marking time until April.