In a move that has sent shockwaves through the chattering classes of Vilnius, Lithuanian leaders have reportedly scurried into bunkers during a drone air alert. Yes, you read that correctly. The men and women who steer the ship of state have temporarily become subterranean squatters, swapping their ministerial leather for the damp embrace of a concrete hole. It is a scenario that would make Kafka blush and Beckett scribble furiously in the margins.
The alert, triggered by an unidentified drone buzzing near the capital, prompted the swift evacuation of the nation's top brass. They now huddle in bunkers, presumably sipping bad coffee and contemplating the existential dread of modern geopolitics. One can only imagine the scene: a huddle of officials, their faces illuminated by the pale glow of smartphones, scrolling through Twitter for updates while the drone (likely a lost delivery quadcopter) meanders aimlessly overhead.
But let us not mock the Lithuanian spirit. This is a country with a memory as long as a Soviet winter. They know that when drones buzz, it might not be Amazon. It could be the opening gambit of a hybrid warfare symphony. So they descend, like proper statespersons, into the bowels of the earth. It is both tragic and farcical, a pantomime of preparedness in an age where the sky has become a theatre of the absurd.
The drone itself, I am told, was eventually identified as a hobbyist's toy. A moment of relief, perhaps, but the damage is done. The image of Lithuanian leaders as moles, blinking in the sudden light of day, will linger. It is a reminder that in the 21st century, the greatest threat to national security might just be a misplaced birthday present.
Still, one must applaud the efficiency. The drills, long planned, are executed with a grim determination. The bunkers are stocked. The water is fresh. The political will is strong. It is a testament to a nation that refuses to be caught napping, even if that means napping underground. I raise my glass of airport gin to the brave bunker dwellers of Lithuania. May their coffee never run cold, and may their drones always be friendly.
In the end, this is not a story about fear. It is a story about resilience. But also, about the sheer ridiculousness of a world where a buzzing toy can send a government diving for cover. We live in strange times, dear readers. Strange times indeed. And if Lithuania's leaders are any indication, we had better get used to the smell of concrete and the taste of tinned rations.
