The countdown to confrontation had begun, the deadline looming like an evil spectre—there was less than twelve hours remaining. The tension that had been steadily building in the Pacific was now a taut trip wire, ready to snap at the slightest application of pressure. But the Allies were as prepared as they could be.

  Beneath the waters off the coast of the South Island, the last splice to the data cable was completed. In the control room of HMNZS Franz Josef, the lead Navy diver gave a firm nod to his Royal Navy counterpart, and the signal was restored. Inside Chorus HQ in Wellington, the chief network engineer stared at his screen, then exhaled sharply.

  “We’re live!” He roared across the room and his team erupted into cheers.

  Across New Zealand, kiwis from all walks of life were able to plug back into their devices, but more importantly, markets surged back into motion, banking systems resumed full operations, and business servers roared to life. For now, the digital blackout was over, and all New Zealanders breathed a sigh of relief. In this modern age of technology, having to live like their grandparents did, was not something they particularly enjoyed! For the moment, with data streaming in from all over the world again, the economic stranglehold appeared to have failed, but no one was under any illusion that China was finished with them. This was only the beginning.

  In the Pacific, the People’s Liberation Army Navy had reinforced and repositioned their fleets. They now had a total of four Type-004 nuclear powered carriers, and their respective groups prowling like caged tigers in international waters just north of the Solomans. Their other two nuclear carriers were pushing south to reinforce the Strait of Malacca, while their three Type-003 conventional carriers appeared to be staying close to home for the time being. Between the Aussies and the British covering the western fleet and the three American carriers and the one from New Zealand, on paper the sides appeared to be evenly matched, for now.

  On Guadalcanal, Operation Wattle-Koru was unfolding with the precision born of countless joint exercises—the culmination of years of quiet preparation between New Zealand and Australia. Under the firm command of Major General Lachie Patterson of the Australian army, the ground element of the combined ready reaction force moved like a well-oiled machine, their surge onto the island swift and efficient.

  With the main port at Honiara under allied control and now cleared of any surprises which may have been left by Chinese forces, the joint New Zealand and Australian fleets were able to safely dock. HMNZS Charles Upham and HMNZS James B. Ward, both Galicia-class landing platform docks, along with the HMAS Choules, had slipped in under the cover of darkness. As soon as they were tied alongside, they were met by NZ and Aussie troops flown in from the Australian mainland. The ships large gaping doors opened, the vehicles inside the cavernous hulls roaring to life, disgorging the better part of an NZ Army mechanised regiment and an Australian Army Brigade onto Guadalcanal’s rugged shores.

  On the water, HMNZS Kaitiaki and her escorts—two Kahu-class missile corvettes— and HMAS Canberra were steaming north to land amphibious troops further up the island, they were due to arrive within the next twenty-four hours, bringing additional firepower and logistical support.

  The operation had begun.

  Henderson Field was the obvious choice for the headquarters detachment—secure, well-positioned, and it seemed fitting, giving the field’s history. The airstrip, once a battleground in another era, now buzzed with activity with elements of the Australian Army Aviation Corps and New Zealand Army Aviation Regiment working in well-practiced and seamless coordination. Ground crews toiled under the sweltering heat, refuelling, rearming, and maintaining helicopters with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic thump of the NZ and Australian Army’s Blackhawks lifting off in staggered waves, carrying troops and supplies into the jungle for patrols, or to suppress hotspots. They were supported by a small fleet of AH-64E Apaches from both countries, prowling the air, their sleek frames gliding over the treetops, gunships ready to bring death to those who opposed them.

  Inside the operations tent, the nerve centre of the campaign, intelligence officers, infantry commanders, and flight leaders huddled over maps, marking out fire support zones, reconnaissance corridors, and likely enemy positions. Murmured discussions punctuated by sharp directives filled the space as strategists adjusted plans in real time, their eyes flicking between live drone feeds and satellite imagery. All under the watchful command of Major General Patterson.

  Overhead, the airfield pulsed with constant movement. A steady stream of C-130J Super Hercules, C-17 Globemaster IIIs, and Boeing 767-400ER military transports roared down the runway at regular intervals, ferrying in the remainder of the two ground units, fresh supplies, ammunition, and further reinforcements from Australia and New Zealand. Pallets of missiles, medical equipment, spare parts, rations and vehicles were offloaded with mechanical precision before the aircraft lifted off again, disappearing back into the vast Pacific sky.

  The Tangaroa Carrier Strike Group also now reinforced, had repositioned further north, closing the distance to the islands, in order to provide direct support to forces on the ground. The combined strength of the group now stood at: one aircraft carrier, three air warfare destroyers (HMNZS Waikato, HMNZS Taranaki, HMAS Hobart), two ASW frigates (HMNZS Te Mana, HMAS Hunter), two missile corvettes (HMNZS Kakapo, HMNZS Kokako), two submarines (HMNZS Mako, HMAS Vampire), and one replenishment oiler (HMNZS Aotearoa), tucked safely beneath the fleet’s protective shield.

  The Canadians, though battered and short on manpower, had reinforced their embattled peacekeeping force bringing them up to battalion strength, and though they were still in transit, the British were coming. Two Canadian River-class destroyers (HMCS Fraser, HMCS Mackenzie), and the oiler HMCS Protecteur, were currently guarding the entrance to Honiara harbour and providing medical support, electrical power and fresh supplies to the beleaguered citizens of the island. They were in place to either aid the task group or escort the LPD’s whichever was needed more.

  In the air, RAAF and RNZAF E-7 Wedgetails, cruised in lazy circles over the islands, monitoring traffic and keeping their eyes open for threats. Meanwhile P-8 Poseidons armed with torpedoes and Naval Strike Missile SSMs carved long, sweeping arcs through the sky, their sensors locked onto Chinese naval movements, hunting surface and sub-surface targets alike. While RAAF F-35As and RNZAF F-15EXs thundered overhead, their posture defensive, their pilots ready to protect the heavies in case the unthinkable happened.

  The war machine was in full motion. Within days of boots hitting the ground, the once-chaotic battlespace had begun to stabilize. Fighting remained sporadic, but resistance was fragmented at best—isolated pockets of pro-China militia still needed to be rooted out, but most of the larger engagements on Guadalcanal had tapered off.

  New Zealand and Australian forces worked methodically, clearing villages, securing supply lines, and dismantling enemy strongholds with surgical precision, rendering aid wherever necessary. While the Canadians, still officially only there as peacekeepers, provided medical and security support. Special operations teams now bolstered by additional forces from both countries and led by Captain Mathews hunted down key militia leaders, while mechanized and motorized units patrolled the roads and jungles, ensuring no remnants of hostile forces could regroup. The once-unchecked violence was now a war of attrition, and the Anzac forces held the advantage.

  With Guadalcanal nearly secured, attention shifted outward. Solomon Islanders on neighbouring islands—Malaita, Choiseul, and New Georgia—were also suffering under the violence and instability. Reports flooded in of Chinese-backed militias enforcing brutal crackdowns, terrorizing civilians, and sabotaging infrastructure to maintain their hold. Intelligence officers and planners gathered in Henderson Field’s command centre, poring over maps and satellite feeds, preparing the next phase.

  The mission was evolving. Operation Wattle-Koru was no longer just about Guadalcanal—it was about the entire Solomon Islands. The question was not if the operation would expand, but when.

  However, one last stronghold remained—the Chinese-controlled power plant on the island’s western coast. Ostensibly a civilian energy project, it had been the epicentre of the earthquake that triggered this entire crisis. Intelligence reports had now confirmed that the facility was, in reality, a clandestine testing site for advanced power technologies, possibly with military applications. Now, it had become a fortress, heavily defended by pro-China militias and elite security forces, with access to sophisticated radars and air to air missile batteries, it was their final bastion on the island. Clearing it would be the last hurdle in securing Guadalcanal, but the Air Forces couldn’t get near it, it had to be taken by land.

  ***

  The jungle pulsed with the weight of the humid air, thick with the stench of damp earth, sweat, and the acrid tang of gunpowder and spent rocket fuel. The undergrowth was dense, the canopy overhead suffocating, trapping heat and sound beneath its tangled embrace.

  Somewhere beyond the foliage, voices stirred. Faint at first—mere echoes in the choking darkness. But with each passing second, they grew louder, reverberating through the trees like a drumbeat of ghosts.

  The Chinese security forces had been on high alert since the fighting erupted nearly two weeks ago. Their fortified position at the power facility had held firm against pro-Western militia forces, their discipline unshaken. They were prepared, waiting, convinced that an assault from the foreign military forces now flooding the island was imminent. Yet, the expected attack never came. Fighter-bombers had probed the perimeter, but each time they were driven off by relentless missile fire and the thunderous roar of anti-air guns.

  Then the voices came.

  A low, rhythmic thumping, like the heartbeat of something ancient awakening beneath the jungle floor. It built in volume, rising from all sides, until the words and the crack of flesh slapping flesh cut through the oppressive darkness—harsh, guttural, and hypnotic.

  “Kamati kamati, kora kora…”

  The chant ebbed and flowed for days, sometimes fading into silence, only to return hours later from an entirely different direction. The cycle repeated through the night hours, then into the next days, wearing on nerves, gnawing at resolve. The local militia, already skittish, were the first to crack—whispers of spirits and curses slithered through their ranks like poison. Even the disciplined Chinese guards, hardened and well-trained, felt the unease creeping in.

  After several days of this, reports of missing men began filtering up the chain. At first, command dismissed them as desertions—soldiers breaking under the relentless psychological torment. But then the bodies started appearing.

  One at first. Then another. Then two, three at a time. Whole patrols went missing, only to be found hours later. Some had been executed at close range, throats slit with brutal efficiency. Others bore no wounds at all, their lifeless faces twisted in terror.

  The jungle was closing in.

  Through it all, the voices remained.

  “Kamati kamati, kora kora…”

  A relentless dirge whispering through the trees. Now, at less than half of their original number, the Chinese commander ordered all patrols to cease and repositioned his forces within the safety of the fenced-in compound.

  ***

  Dense foliage surrounded the New Zealand infantry company as they watched the Chinese preparations unfold from the top of the valley. They had been circling the perimeter for several days, moving cautiously through the jungle, their boots sinking into the soft, rain-soaked ground. The only sounds were the distant hum of insects and the occasional rustle of leaves as the soldiers maneuvered around gnarled roots and towering ferns.

  Major Alex Ward raised his handheld optics and observed the sprawling facility nestled in the natural valley below. Floodlights swept the perimeter, illuminating warehouses, camouflaged radar dishes, and mobile missile launch platforms. The sheer scale of the operation was staggering. His sharp eyes scanned the greenery ahead, a wall of impenetrable jungle that could conceal anything—or anyone. His earpiece crackled softly with a report from Lieutenant Mason of first platoon, who was up ahead with the point team.

  "Two Actual, this is Two-One Actual, Looks like you were right, Major. That psyops shit really did a number on them. They’re all tucked up nice and cosy like, in the compound now," Mason’s voice whispered through the comms. "They’re well set though—dug-in gun emplacements and decent enfilade. Looks like they’re sweeping the area with LMGs."

  Ward clenched his jaw. The facility was going to be a tough nut to crack—perhaps too tough. Their efforts had been almost too thorough. Even with the Chinese forces and militia on the back foot, they were still very well prepared, the Chinese commander obviously knew his business well, Ward thought to himself. On the surface, it appeared that the Kiwis weren’t outnumbered, but there was no real way to tell how many men the Chinese had inside the facility itself and there was no time to bring in further reinforcements or heavy support. Besides, those missile batteries would tear through tanks just as easily as aircraft, and there was no way to move assets forward without being spotted. A larger, costlier battle wasn’t an option.

  No, going ‘old-school’, speed, surprise, and the violence of action—that’s what would win this day. The defenders though running scared, were overconfident, lulled into a false sense of control by their prepared defences. Ward would use that against them.

  And besides, this wasn’t just another mission. The Chinese had struck first, sinking the Canterbury and killing dozens of Kiwi sailors and peacekeepers. This was payback.

  Ward crouched low, his hand gripping the stock of his suppressed LMT MARS-L. He turned to Lieutenant Tai Rangi commander of the heavy weapons platoon, who was kneeling nearby, his face streaked with mud to blend into the environment.

  "Tai? Set up the mortars on the ridge over there. We’ll shell the hell out of them, then move in under the barrage. We hit them hard and fast before they can regroup or coordinate," Ward whispered.

  Rangi nodded and relayed the orders in quick hand signals to the rest of his platoon. After some further instructions from Ward to the other commanders, the remaining platoons fanned out, taking cover behind thick tree trunks and within patches of underbrush. The silence was deafening now, the jungle seeming to hold its breath in anticipation of the coming violence. The New Zealanders waited, their breaths steady despite the adrenaline coursing through their veins.

  At Ward’s signal, the jungle erupted.

  The mortar teams fired the first shots. Round after round from the L16A2 81mm mortars rained down into the compound, each explosion sending fire and shrapnel slicing through emplacements, vehicles, and bodies alike. Chaos overtook the defenders as they scrambled for cover. Then came the rifle fire, precise and unrelenting. The suppressors didn’t mask the violence, but they preserved the hearing of the assaulting troops as they stormed forward, using the smoke and fire as their screen.

  Chinese soldiers not already dead or dying scrambled for whatever cover they could find, shouting orders in Mandarin as they mounted a disjointed counterattack. Bullets tore through leaves and splintered branches, the air alive with the whine of ricochets. Grenades arced through the air from the charging Kiwis, detonating in concussive bursts of fire and steel, sending sprays of viscera, dirt, and debris skyward.

  Ward kept his rifle trained on a Chinese soldier attempting to break cover toward an intact machine gun emplacement. A single shot to the chest dropped the man, his body slumping onto the ground like a ragdoll.

  "Shift left!" Ward ordered, his voice low but urgent as his men moved toward the main gate. "They’re trying to pin us down!"

  The individual platoons moved with practiced precision. The New Zealanders’ familiarity with this kind of terrain gave them a crucial edge; they used the dense foliage and natural cover to their advantage, striking from unexpected angles.

  A burst of automatic fire from a Chinese light machine gun shredded a patch of foliage near Ward, forcing him to dive for cover. He landed hard, the breath knocked from his lungs but quickly rolled onto his stomach and returned fire.

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  "Rangi, shift mortar fire left, suppress that fucking LMG!" he barked through his comms.

  "On it, boss!" Rangi responded.

  As the mortar rounds landed near the machine gun nest, forcing the gunner to duck, Ward slithered through the undergrowth like a snake, his camouflaged form almost invisible. Moments later, the distinctive crack of his rifle sounded, and the machine gunner slumped over his weapon, half his head missing.

  The Chinese forces were in complete disarray now, their cohesion well and truly shattered. Ward’s men pressed the advantage, picking off the remaining soldiers one by one. Within minutes, the jungle fell silent again, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the distant cries of birds disturbed by the battle.

  Ward signalled an all-clear, and the company regrouped in the main compound. The soldiers’ faces were grim but focused, their weapons still at the ready. For most of them, the youngest at least, this was their first time in real combat and Ward was pleased to see that they had accounted for themselves well. He was proud of his men.

  "Casualties?" Ward asked.

  "None on our side Major," Mason replied, though his expression was solemn as he glanced at the bodies of the soldiers and militia scattered around them. “A few bumps and bruises, but nothing to serious, not like these poor fuckers!”

  Ward exhaled, looking around at the carnage. "Signal command. Get them to send in the second wave. We’re gonna need more bodies to fully secure and investigate this place."

  While his men went about their business of clearing the facility, Ward couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Guadalcanal had once again become a battleground, and he couldn’t help but question the sense of it.

  ***

  It was a single shot that changed everything. Four hours until the deadline, and things were getting frisky in the Pacific. Somewhere just south of Fiji, under a gray, unsettled sky, the MT Koru Discovery, a 162,000GT/332m Koru Energy oil tanker, and the MV Aotearoa Dawn, a 50,000GT/233m Koru Logistics container carrier, moved cautiously across the water. Both ships were fully laden, riding low as they pressed on toward Fiji’s desperate need for oil and supplies.

  HMNZS Canterbury and HMAS Maitland had been joined by HMNZS Te Kaha, which had escorted the two heavies from Auckland. The three naval vessels flanked the civilian ships on either side, ensuring their passage through increasingly hostile waters. Reports had confirmed increased Chinese naval traffic stopping and detaining New Zealand-flagged vessels, often holding them for hours—or even days. Wellington had responded with escorts.

  It wasn’t a glamorous duty, but it needed to be done. After weeks of relentless patrolling and tense standoffs, both crews were somewhat relieved to be on what seemed a routine mission. The lengthy stopover in Suva promised much-needed shore leave. Then, the routine changed.

  Two Chinese Type 054A frigates, the Xianning and Huangshi, had appeared on radar the previous evening and had been trailing the convoy ever since. At first, they loitered on the horizon, but all too soon they were inching closer, with Huangshi eventually racing in and cutting across Canterbury’s bow, forcing her to alter course or risk collision.

  Now, they were pressing the issue—harassing them.

  On Canterbury’s bridge, Captain Caleb Rawlinson watched the Chinese vessels on his radar plotting screen. The ship had been on continuous ‘Action Stations’ for several hours and everyone’s patience was wearing thin. Not to mention that the white anti-flash gear under their crisp dark blue at-sea uniform fatigues was irritatingly uncomfortable.

  “That silly fucker is closing the distance again, Skipper,” reported the EX-O Commander James Benson, his long-range glasses trained on the advancing frigate. “They’re coming in fast.”

  Rawlinson exhaled slowly. This had been expected. The Chinese had been pushing into the Pacific for years, creeping into local waters with their so-called ‘maritime policing’ operations. It started with fishing fleets, then economic coercion, and when the island nations pushed back, the PLAN sent in its warships.

  But things had begun to shift. With New Zealand’s expanded naval presence and Australia’s renewed regional security commitment, the Chinese weren’t getting the free hand they once had. An uneasy stalemate had formed. Tonight, though, it looked like that was about to change.

  The first crack of gunfire split the air. A sharp report, followed by another, then two distant plumes of water, erupted barely a hundred meters from Canterbury’s bow.

  “Warning shots!” Benson stated unnecessarily. “Close though. Decent gunnery.”

  “Maintain course,” Rawlinson ordered, voice steady. “They fire for effect, we return in kind.”

  The comms panel crackled. A cold, clipped voice, heavily accented in Mandarin, cut through the static.

  “Unknown warship, this is Chinese warship Xianning. You are in restricted waters. Stand down and alter course immediately.”

  Rawlinson pressed the transmit button.

  “This is New Zealand warship Canterbury. Negative, Xianning. These are international waters. You have fired upon a lawful escort. You will disengage, or your actions will be deemed an act of war and treated accordingly.”

  A long silence followed. Rawlinson glanced at Benson with a smirk. “Think he’ll back off?”

  “I honestly have no idea, Skipper. I hope so,” Benson replied, lifting his glasses to observe the PLAN vessel.

  Then came the next move—faster than expected.

  “Bridge, CnC. Their trying the back door boss, they’ve just tried to get in with the command key and now they’re trying direct hacks. We have them contained, they’re not going anywhere.”

  “Hmmm, that didn’t take long” Rawlinson said to Benson who nodded in the affirmative. “Hopefully they don’t try the same thing with the heavies, that could get messy real fast!”

  The next few minutes were tense, both men expecting the Chinese to do just exactly that, when they failed with the warships. However, their next move was completely unexpected.

  “Bridge, CnC! Hostile inbound! Missile detected! Track ID 001, bearing 212 degrees, range 9 nautical miles, speed Mach 5. Assess as hostile. It’s headed for Te Kaha! They’re initiating countermeasures. Impact in 15 seconds!”

  :Jesus Christ! That went turbo real fucking fast!” Rawlinson stated, the blood draining from his face, as he reached for the intercom mic. “CnC, Bridge! Kate, arm HELIOS, intercept that fucking missile!”

  “Too late!” she snapped back, recent memories all too fresh.

  A mile ahead, Te Kaha scrambled to defend herself. Nulka decoys, chaff, and flares erupted from her hull like a Guy Fawkes display. The 20mm CIWS spat tongues of yellow burning flames of fire at the incoming missile, whipping through the pre-dawn darkness. But it was too fast and too smart. Te Kaha was a fine ship in her day, but she was ridiculously outmatched now! The YJ-21 hypersonic missile dipped, weaved, and struck midships, sending a thunderous explosion skyward. Fireballs and shrapnel illuminated the night, casting Te Kaha into chaos.

  The missile had come from Huangshi—the second frigate, which had maneuvered into position while Xianning kept Canterbury distracted.

  Then, Xianning’s forward gun mount swung toward Canterbury—and fired. The 5-inch shell soared through the night, smashing into Canterbury’s starboard RHIB mount and crane, sending twisted metal and debris across the deck. Superficial damage—but the line had well and truly been crossed.

  With Canterbury taking fire and Te Kaha a burning wreck, Rawlinson had had enough.

  “CnC, Bridge! P-WO, weapons released—arm HELIOS 2-5-0 Kilowatt, target the Xianning’s forward gun mount, 30-second burn. Fire!”

  “Bridge, CnC! Weapons released, aye!”

  On Canterbury’s forward deck, the High Energy Laser with Integrated Optical-dazzler mount swung right, locking onto Xianning’s deck gun. A blinding red beam lashed out, burning through the Chinese frigate’s gun housing. Within seconds, the barrel drooped, melting into slag as sparks erupted from its turret casing, the shells within beginning to cook off.

  Then, all hell broke loose.

  A second salvo rocked Canterbury, from the port side, the impact slamming into the hull. Huangshi had rejoined the fray.

  “Damage report!” Rawlinson called.

  “Minor! No breaches!” Someone replied.

  Across the waves, Xianning was in trouble. Smoke curled from her damaged bow, the glow of small onboard fires flickering through the haze. Huangshi was right behind her sister, but before she could fire again her superstructure was rocked by a salvo from Maitland, who had swung around the rear of the big oil tanker and immediately engaged from astern.

  Canterbury lined up a second shot and turned the Huangshi’s deck gun also into molten slag, before both ships turned tail and ran from the engagement at high speed.

  “Their retreating.” Benson confirmed seconds later.

  Rawlinson exhaled, his grip on the console easing. Last time it had been him on the receiving end, now he had the upper hand, and he felt like a few demons had just been exorcised. But there was still work to do.

  He turned to his EX-O. “Log the engagement and signal Fleet. And get us moving, we need to see how bad Te Kaha has been hurt!”

  “Aye, skipper.”

  Several long minutes later, the flaming wreck of Te Kaha grew ever larger in the bridge windscreen.

  “Status on Te Kaha?” Rawlinson barked.

  “Doesn’t look good, Skipper,” Benson replied grimly, eyes locked on the camera feeds streaming onto the bridge’s monitors. “She’s listing badly, but she’s still afloat. Multiple compartments look flooded. No propulsion, can’t raise her on long range radio, we’ll try ship to ship when we get closer.”

  Rawlinson clenched his jaw. They had to get those sailors off before she went under.

  “EX-O Launch the RHIBs and get the helo in the air. We need SAR teams moving, now!”

  Aboard HMAS Maitland, Commander Erica Lang had already reached the same conclusion. The Australian general purpose frigate was smaller, but she had plenty of room for survivors.

  “Maitland, this is Canterbury. Did you take any damage?” Rawlinson queried.

  “Not a scratch Canterbury, We’re moving in for recovery now.” Lang replied.

  “Copy Maitland, we’re about to do the same.” Rawlinson stated, before turning to his crew to issue more orders.

  Time was of the essence. Te Kaha was going down, there was no stopping that now, the missile had done just too much damage. It was just a matter of how long they had for the rescue. Even the heavies had dropped boats into water and were lending a hand.

  As Maitland closed the gap, her crew scrambled to deploy RHIBs. Overhead, Te Kaha’s Seahawk was joined by the Canterbury’s and Maitland’s MH-60, their searchlights piercing the smoke billowing from Te Kaha’s ruined midsection. One of her angled funnels was just gone. The other a smouldering wreck, her engines on fire, a gaping wound in the belly of the once proud warship.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday—this is NZ Warship Te Kaha,” a strained voice could finally be heard through the comms. “We’ve got multiple wounded. Fire’s spreading. We need immediate evac.”

  “Hold on, Te Kaha,” Rawlinson transmitted. “We’re coming.”

  As the first RHIBs reached the stricken frigate, sailors clambered down ropes and leapt into the water, dragging wounded comrades with them. Above, a Seahawk hovered, its hoist winch screaming as it lifted a severely burned officer from the deck.

  Then, a new warning blared across Canterbury’s bridge.

  “Bridge, CnC! Hostiles inbound! Multiple missiles detected! Track ID 002, 003, 004, 005, bearing 180 degrees, range 15 nautical miles, speed Mach 5. Assess as hostile! Engaging countermeasures”

  Rawlinson’s stomach twisted. The Chinese weren’t just going to leave them alone. Standing on the bridgewing , he had been overseeing rescue operations, now he was staring out across the water at the in the direction of the incoming missiles. Seconds later lids from the forward VLS tubes slammed open and missiles of their own raced skywards on pillars of orange flame

  “Maitland, be advised—we have incoming missiles, likely hostiles.”

  “We see them,” Lang acknowledged. “Engaging.”

  The Australian frigate’s own VLS missiles roared skyward. Most of the incoming missiles were struck and erupted in flames, safely far away from the allied vessels.

  However, one managed to slip through and from Canterbury’s deck, the HELIOS mount swung and locked onto the incoming missile. A burst of superheated energy lanced out, guided by the AEGIS combat system it struck it’s target with unerring accuracy, disintegrating it in a blinding white flash.

  Benson exhaled. “That’ll make ‘em think twice.”

  But there was no time for relief.

  “Te Kaha’s going under!” came the frantic call from someone on the forward deck.

  Rawlinson looked back just in time to see the listing frigate lurch violently. Smoke and fire billowed from her shattered midsection, and then, with an agonized groan of tortured metal, she capsized and began to slip beneath the waves.

  “Goddamn it!” Benson muttered.

  “Do we have them all?” Rawlinson demanded.

  “Still pulling the last of them!” came the desperate response.

  The MH-60R Seahawk crews worked frantically, hoisting survivors as the RHIB teams hauled the injured aboard. As Te Kaha’s bow slipped under, one last figure dove from the deck—an officer, blood streaming down his face.

  “Get him!” the helo pilot called. The swimmer, having just hauled another crewman through the door, leapt into the swirling water again. Moments later the winch operator lowered the cable, barely snagging the pair before the dying warship dragged them down and the ocean swallowed them whole.

  Then just like that, Te Kaha was gone. The sea churned where she had once been, only burning debris and oil-slicked water marking her final resting place.

  As he watched the last of the Australian RHIBs pull alongside Maitland, Rawlinson allowed himself a breath. They had saved as many as they could. But the cost had been high. The final butchers bill was still to be told, but so many were missing, and one frigate was lost.

  “Bridge, CnC,” Miller reported. “Chinese ships are pulling back. Either they’re out of missiles, or we must have dealt them a heavier hit than we thought, they’re disengaging.”

  “Copy!” Rawlinson replied grimly. It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. “CnC, Bridge. Comms, get me Wellington on the secure vid, I’ll be down in a minute. This just became a whole different war.”

  ***

  In the heart of the Beehive, the war room exuded an air of grim determination. The long oak table gleamed under the harsh artificial lights, and the weight of the crisis hung heavily in the room. Among the attendees were the Chief of Defence Force, the Chiefs of the Navy, Army, and Air Force, Prime Minister Miriama Kahu, Deputy Prime Minister Craig Du Plessis, Minister of Defence Kevin MacNielty, Minister of Foreign Affairs Derek Harper, and NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair. Via secure video link, the Prime Ministers, Defence Ministers, and Foreign Ministers of Australia, the United Kingdom, and Canada, as well as the President of the United States and the Secretaries of Defence and State, were linked in to this pivotal meeting.

  On the screen in front of them, Captain Caleb Rawlinson stood in the dimly lit secure radio room adjacent to the Command and Control Centre of HMNZS Canterbury. His expression was etched with exhaustion, the faint glow of ambient lights casting sharp shadows on his face. The brief he had just delivered had hit like a sledgehammer, leaving every face in the war room cold and unreadable.

  A heavy silence gripped the space. The air felt thick, suffocating. The first to break the stillness was Prime Minister Kahu.

  "Jesus Christ, Captain," Miriama Kahu muttered, her voice tense. "And you're absolutely sure this was an unprovoked attack? They fired on us. They fired on Te Kaha?"

  Rawlinson’s nod was grim. "Yes, Prime Minister. They started with the usual intimidation tactics, and we responded as per the protocols. But they escalated quickly, launching a confirmed missile strike—a hypersonic YJ-21. I'm sorry, ma’am, but Te Kaha is gone. We engaged with directed energy to disable their main weapons, forcing their retreat, but the line was crossed."

  Kevin MacNielty’s face had drained of colour, yet his resolve remained unshaken. "Casualties?"

  Rawlinson’s breath came in a sharp exhale. "Te Kaha had a crew of 170. We’ve pulled survivors from the water, but the bill is high Sir. Between us and Maitland, we’ve recovered over a hundred people so far. We’re still counting the dead."

  The US Secretary of Defence, seated in Washington, leaned forward, his voice cutting through the tension. "We all here are deeply sorry for your loss, but Captain, do we have confirmation on the missile launch platform?"

  Rawlinson's response was clipped, professional. "Affirmative, sir. The missile was launched from the Huangshi, a PLAN Type 054A frigate. We have gun camera footage, radar telemetry, and ELINT confirmation. The data has already been sent via encrypted burst to fleet SATCOM."

  The room fell into another stunned silence, the weight of the information settling in. Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick the chief of the navy snapped his fingers and pointed to a junior officer. Within moments the room was reliving in vivid detail the attack and the following engagement in total 4K.

  "Thank you, Captain," Miriama said, her voice soft but tinged with empathy. "I’m sorry it had to be you again. Were there any other casualties or damage?"

  "Thank you Ma’am. None to the heavy ships or the Australians," Rawlinson assured them. "We’ve taken some bumps—some injuries to the crew and Canterbury—but nothing we can’t recover from. She’s a tough ship, and so are her people. We'll be back in the fight soon enough!"

  The man’s infectious smile and his reassurance was met with murmurs of gratitude, though it was clear that the gravity of the situation hadn't eased.

  "Thank you, Captain. Once your recovery is complete, proceed to Suva, please. That will be all."

  With that, the screen flickered and switched to show the faces of the world leaders, their eyes sharp and focused. Replays of the engagement still playing in the background.

  Craig Du Plessis, his thick South African accent cutting through the room like a knife, was the first to speak. "This is an act of war. No ambiguity this time. No grey area. We cannot let this stand."

  Derek Harper’s jaw clenched as he absorbed the information. "If what Rawlinson said is true—and I have absolutely no reason to doubt him with what we’re seeing here—then we have more than enough evidence to take to the UN. But let's not kid ourselves—China will deny it. They’ll muddy the waters. They'll claim self-defence, or they'll blame it on a ‘rogue commander’ again! But this was a calculated move. I’m just surprised they jumped the gun on the deadline like this. A mistake perhaps, a miscalculation?”

  Miriama Kahu turned her gaze to NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair, her expression steely. "What’s the intelligence read? Do they want war, or are we just successfully calling their bluff? Are they just pissed off or will they stand down?"

  Sinclair exhaled, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to ease the mounting tension. "What they want is what they’ve always wanted. Control. They want the Pacific, the shipping lanes, the trade routes, the fisheries, and our growing economic power. This is a test. They're probing, pushing to see how far we'll go before we break. They want us isolated—that’s why they sent the ultimatum in the first place. They knew we'd respond, but they also knew the world would hesitate before backing us militarily." He looked around the room, his eyes cold. "I’d bet my life savings that we were supposed to shoot first in that engagement. And they will frame it that way—mark my words."

  From the UK, Sir Edward Bramwell’s voice broke through the tension. "I hope to Christ they have miscalculated. If this stunt was meant to intimidate you Kiwis, it’s had the opposite bloody effect." The UK Prime Minister Richard Winslow sat nodding sagely beside his elder colleague.

  Kevin MacNielty’s voice was low but filled with fire. "You're damn fucking right it has, Sir Edward! We’ll retaliate all right, but we need a plan, one that doesn’t send us straight into all-out war."

  Craig Du Plessis scoffed, his voice heavy with disbelief. "I think we’re past that line, Kevin. They already declared it."

  Miriama Kahu leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "China will not dictate the narrative here. We take this to the world, and we do it now, before their deadline. We expose their duplicity. Does anyone have any objections?"

  "No objections here, Miri," John Mitchell replied, his voice steady and resolute.

  “None from me, either.” The Canadian Prime Minister, Thomas Bouchard asserted.

  Ellen Carter’s voice echoed through the room, calm yet pointed. "Are you sure you’re ready for this?"

  "As ready as we’ll ever be," Miriama responded, her voice unwavering.

  "All right then," Carter said with finality. “You have my support, good luck!”

  "Good luck to us all," Miriama said, her expression hardening into determination. "I want to be in front of cameras within the hour. We take this fight to them, now."