The New Zealand Special Intelligence Service was operating at full tilt. The days blurred into nights as Sinclair’s team traced leads, monitored intercepts, and pursued the fleeting ghosts of a vast, unseen war. The names Carmichael had given them had cracked the door open, but not for long. Every time they got close, the lead would vanish—sometimes metaphorically, disappearing into bureaucratic dead ends or false identities; sometimes physically, with operatives turning up dead in alleyways, rivers, or burned-out cars.

  Between Sinclair’s team in Wellington and their counterparts in Australia, the UK, and Canada—with begrudging but invaluable assistance from the Americans—the intelligence community was tightening its net. But the harder they pushed, the more it became evident: someone else was pushing back. The major players were cleaning house.

  A secure video conference was called.

  Jonathan Willoughby of ASIS appeared first, his Australian drawl clipped and tired. “I assume you’ve all seen the report from Jakarta? Our man on the ground barely made it out, and his contact—one of Carmichael’s supposed links—was found in a ditch with his tongue cut out. That’s not local work. That’s Beijing sending a message.”

  Amanda Briggs, CIA Director, leaned forward, her sharp features illuminated by the dim glow of her screen. “Same story here. We had an asset in Manila who was tracking a financial trail. Two days ago, he booked a flight to Tokyo. Never made it. His hotel room was torched, and the local authorities aren’t talking.”

  Sir Geoffrey Redgrave of MI6 exhaled, tapping his fingers against the edge of his desk. “We’re dealing with professionals, not panicked amateurs. They’re executing a systemic purge. We move a piece, they take it off the board before we can make our next move. And they’re fast.”

  Gabriel Forrester of CSIS nodded. “Too fast. It’s as if they know what we’re doing before we even do it. Either we’ve got leaks, or their counter-intelligence is even sharper than we estimated.”

  Kaoru Ishiguro of Japan’s CIRO had been silent, but now he spoke, his voice low and measured. “We’ve seen this before. When China is in control, they leave a few breadcrumbs, misdirect, play a long game. But this? This is different. This is fear. They’re reacting.”

  Sinclair rubbed his eyes, his tie askew, shirt sleeves rolled up. He was in his office on Pipitea Street, surrounded by walls of files, transcripts, and classified reports. “So we push harder.” His voice was rough, but resolute. “If they’re scared, it means we’re onto something. We need to move faster than them. We find out what they’re covering up.”

  Amanda Briggs smirked. “And how do you propose we do that when they’re burying everything we touch?”

  Sinclair leaned forward, the shadows deepening under his eyes. “We don’t just follow the trails they want to erase. We lay one of our own. We set the bait. And we see who bites.”

  A beat of silence. Then Willoughby gave a slow, knowing nod. “Now that’s a proper game of spies.”

  Sir Geoffrey adjusted his cuffs, a thin smile curling his lips. “Let’s see if the dragon chases shadows.”

  ***

  Another meeting was taking place in a high-security conference room deep within the Zhongnanhai complex in Beijing. The room was dimly lit, with only the soft glow of digital displays, cigarette smoke, thick and acrid and the faint hum of a secure white-noise generator filling the air. At the head of the table sat President Xiang Wei, his expression unreadable as he sifted through the latest intelligence briefings. Across from him sat Minister of Defence Liang Qiang, Chief of Defence Force General Chen Jianhong, and the head of the Ministry of State Security, Director Sun Kai.

  There was no need for formalities. They had met like this too many times in recent weeks, each session more frustrating than the last. The situation was spiralling beyond their control.

  “The latest reports,” Sun Kai began, his voice clipped, “confirm what we already suspected. Our networks in New Zealand, Australia, and the broader Pacific are collapsing faster than we can repair them. Assets are being eliminated or disappearing before we can extract them.”

  General Chen Jianhong’s jaw tightened. “And yet, we have no evidence that their counterintelligence teams were even aware of half these people. This is not a simple crackdown—it’s a purge.”

  President Xiang exhaled sharply, setting his documents down. “A purge that is working too well. Do we have any theory as to how they are moving so quickly?”

  There was silence for a moment before Sun Kai leaned forward, his fingers steepled. His usually impassive face showed a rare flicker of frustration. “We are dealing with a highly coordinated effort, but no clear pattern emerges beyond the fact that we are consistently one step behind. The Americans, the British, the Canadians, and the Australians are clearly involved. But New Zealand? They are the smallest of them. Yet they are at the centre of this.”

  President Xiang’s expression darkened. “They are a minor player compared to the others, but they have somehow become the pivot point for our failures. If they have uncovered something, it is not through their own capacity but through the alignment of their allies.”

  Liang Qiang shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table. “We should assume their intelligence networks are stronger than we estimated.”

  Sun Kai shook his head. “Perhaps, but not infallible. There is one exception—one asset who remains operational.”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “Nathan Liu.”

  There was a beat of silence before Liang Qiang scoffed. “That is impossible. If they had cracked our networks, they would have found him by now.”

  “And yet, they have not.” Sun Kai’s voice was steady. “We have no indications that Liu has been compromised in any way. He remains active, continues to operate without interference, and, as far as we can tell, is still in the trust of his government.”

  President Xiang frowned. “Then why is everything else crumbling around him?”

  “That is the question,” Sun Kai admitted. “Either New Zealand has become frighteningly competent in counterintelligence overnight, or there is another player in this game that we have yet to identify.”

  General Chen exhaled sharply through his nose. “We cannot afford to wait for that answer to reveal itself. Our foothold in the region is slipping.”

  President Xiang closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened them, his gaze sharp. “Then we stop reacting. We take control. If they have gained ground, we will force them onto the defensive.”

  Liang Qiang straightened. “And what do you propose?”

  “We escalate. Strategically.” President Xiang’s voice was quiet but firm. “Liu stays in play. But we begin contingency planning in case this situation worsens. If New Zealand thinks they can punch above their weight, we smack them down again like a disobedient dog and remind them of their place.”

  The room was silent as each man considered the implications. The failures of the past weeks had left them with no clear path forward, but one truth remained: control had to be reasserted.

  Whatever it took.

  ***

  A dark green NZ Army Black Hawk skimmed low over the darkened jungle canopy of Santa Isabel Island, its rotor wash flattening the treetops as it thundered toward the drop zone. Inside, five men sat strapped into their harnesses, doing last minute prep work and checking their gear, silent beneath the roar of the engines. The red interior lights cast their faces in a muted glow, highlighting the grim focus in their eyes.

  Captain Aaron Mathews of the New Zealand Special Air Service checked his watch and gave a final nod to his team. “One minute,” came the pilot’s voice over the headset.

  Beside him, Staff Sergeant Callum Blake of the Australian SASR gave a slight roll of his shoulders, flexing the tension out. “Hope you Kiwis packed some lunch,” he muttered. “It’s gonna be a long walk.”

  Corporal Shane Edwards snorted but said nothing, it was the same sad joke every time! Instead, his focus was on his rifle. Corporal Todd Gillard of the SASR gave a thumbs-up, while Lance Corporal Toby McKenna just grinned through his gum shield.

  The Black Hawk banked sharply, flaring its nose up the wheels barely touching a narrow clearing only just large enough to accommodate the aircraft. The side door slid open easily, on well-maintained runners, the red light from within flashing briefly like a demon before it was extinguished. The team disembarked swiftly, moving into the darkness, melding seamlessly into the jungle. Within moments, the helicopter lifted off again, banking away into the night, leaving them in silence beneath the dense jungle canopy, total time on the ground, less than thirty seconds.

  Mathews motioned forward, and they began their trek. The humidity was oppressive, thick with the scent of damp earth and rotting foliage. The jungle was alive with the nocturnal sounds of insects and distant animal calls, but they moved in practiced silence, their footfalls blending seamlessly with the natural soundscape.

  For two days, they navigated through the dense undergrowth, taking cautious routes to avoid detection, stopping only to rest in shifts. They crossed rivers, scaled ridges, and wove through thick jungle, their target a remote, unmarked location deep in the interior of Santa Isabel—coordinates provided by an intercepted transmission flagged as high priority.

  On the second night, they found it.

  A cluster of buildings lay hidden in a natural depression, camouflaged beneath a dense canopy of netting and foliage. The team settled into a concealed observation position, eyes scanning the perimeter through night-vision optics. The structures were low-slung, utilitarian, surrounded by a fence that was more for deterrence than serious defence. A communications array jutted above the treeline, its dishes angled toward the sky.

  Mathews adjusted his optics, noting the Chinese insignia stencilled faintly on a supply crate near one of the structures. “Well that looks PLA, but that doesn’t…” he whispered.

  Blake shifted beside him, frowning. “MmHmm… something is very off here.”

  From a tree further up the ridge, Edwards swept his scope across the compound. “No patrols,” he murmured. “And the fence? That’s not PLA standard. They usually go heavier on security.”

  McKenna tapped Mathews’ shoulder and pointed. Near one of the buildings, a pair of figures emerged from a doorway—dark silhouettes against the pale glow of a dim overhead light. Their uniforms were non-standard, lacking the usual Chinese military insignia, and their weapons were mismatched, not the uniform loadout expected from a professional unit.

  Mathews’ jaw tightened. “These guys don’t look like PLA to me, not even the militia we’ve been fighting. Their uniforms are too, decent, these guys are contractors, this has got to be a front of some kind.”

  Gillard exhaled slowly. “Then who the hell are they really working for?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Blake replied with a conspiratorial waggle of his eye brows.

  They stayed out of sight and set up cameras and motion sensors, the usual routine, then they settled in to observe. A constant stream of data, both video and audio streamed in real time back to Pipitea St via one of their own orbiting comms satellites.

  ***

  It was a warm Sunday morning at Premier House, the official residence of New Zealand’s Prime Minister. The conservatory was bathed in golden summer sunlight, the air rich with the mingling scents of fresh buttery croissants, crispy bacon, and an aged brie from the local Lindale factory. A light apple and feijoa juice glowed pale green in crystal glasses, while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee added an undercurrent of warmth to the pleasant scene.

  Miriama Kahu had grown weary of the Beehive’s sterility and had chosen this more elegant venue for the morning’s discussion. Around the breakfast table sat Deputy Prime Minister Craig Du Plessis, who also held the Science and Innovation portfolio, alongside Foreign Affairs Minister Derek Harper, Defence Minister Kevin MacNielty, NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair, and Oliver Walker, with degrees in History, Politics, and Defence Studies from Masey University, he had become one of Miriama’s most trusted advisors. He was young, eager and highly intelligent, qualities she admired greatly.

  Outside, the Diplomatic Protection Service maintained its usual quiet vigilance, patrolling the grounds. They weren’t as flashy as the U.S. Secret Service, nor did they need to be. They operated in the shadows, ensuring the safety of New Zealand’s leadership, sweeping for listening devices and ensuring that any discussions within these walls remained private.

  Miriama sliced through her croissant, watching Sinclair carefully as she asked, “Tell me, Charles, what progress have we made with Iron Lotus?”

  The intelligence chief hastily swallowed a mouthful of pastry, washing it down with juice before responding. “A good deal, in fact, Prime Minister. Much of the network we’ve been tracking has started to unravel. With Carmichael out of the picture, someone’s trying to cover their tracks. The moment we identify a new operative, they’re… dealt with.” He gave a pointed look before taking another bite, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

  Miriama held his gaze. Once, she had despised both the work Sinclair did and, by extension, the man himself. But this crisis had forced her to reassess. He was not just a functionary behind a desk—he was a soldier in his own right, fighting a war that most people would never see, nor understand, let alone appreciate. And, she had to admit, he was damn good at it.

  “What does this mean for our intelligence situation?” she asked, voice steady. “Are we secure, or have they simply gone deeper underground?”

  Sinclair exhaled through his nose, reaching for his coffee. “A bit of both, to be honest. We’re breaking their network faster than they can patch it, but that means they’ll get desperate. Desperate people make mistakes. We just have to be ready to capitalize on them.”

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  Kevin MacNielty leaned forward, his broad fingers tapping idly against his coffee cup. “What are we going to do about Liu?”

  Sinclair paused, savouring the last bite of his breakfast—flaky pastry, crisp bacon, rich cheese. Premier House had a far superior chef to Pipitea Street. He took his time before answering, knowing that once he spoke, the conversation would turn sharp.

  “We leave him in play,” he said at last, setting down his fork. “He may not work for us, but our counter-operation against him is yielding results with the Chinese. Every step he takes is either one we’ve anticipated or one we can use. For now, he’s more valuable in motion than locked away.”

  A flicker of unease passed over MacNielty’s face. Miriama caught it.

  “We’re dancing on a knife’s edge here,” the Defence Minister muttered.

  Miriama lifted her coffee, inhaling its rich aroma before taking a slow sip. She set the cup down with a quiet clink against the porcelain saucer and smiled.

  “Then let’s make sure we don’t slip.”

  The table fell silent for a moment before Miriama turned to MacNielty again, her tone shifting to one of quiet authority. “On that note, Kevin, how go the preparations? How is the joint military command performing?”

  MacNielty stood, crossing to the serving table to refill his coffee. He answered from over his shoulder. “There were a few teething issues, which was to be expected, but all in all, it seems to be going rather well. Mason has split the six carriers available to him into three groups of two and mixed them fairly well. They should begin their ‘freedom of navigation’ exercises within the next few days. The groups will sail on a triangular pattern from the Solomons to the South China Sea through Indonesia and across the top of Australia on a rotational basis, that covers the Australians and us, the islands and of course, gives a small ‘fuck you’ to the Chinese.”

  Du Plessis let out a low whistle. “That’s throwing the cat among the pigeons. I like that Mason—he’s a good man, very pragmatic.” His South African accent gave the words a clipped, hard edge.

  MacNielty chuckled as he returned to his seat. “Indeed. It seems he’s winning over the Americans. I must admit, I was surprised when they suggested one of ours take on the role.”

  Derek Harper frowned slightly. “Do you think it’s plausible deniability, or are they being genuine?”

  Miriama tapped a manicured nail against her coffee cup, considering. “Genuine, I think. But only time will tell.” She let that thought linger before moving on. “What of Fiji and our preparations there?”

  “Commodore Robertson has taken over command of Fleet Base Pacific in Suva. Fleet assets are in place, and families have started filling base housing. Air operations are proceeding at pace. Between that and the deep-sea sonar network, we are well covered in the region.”

  MacNielty stood again, this time selecting another pastry from the buffet. “Operations in the Solomons are wrapping up. We haven’t scoured every island yet, but the army is getting there. We’ll have to make a decision soon—whether we stay or pull our forces back. Our peacekeeping duties are basically done, and we can only keep up the pretence for so long before the world starts thinking we’re occupiers not liberators, even with a standing invitation from the legitimate government.”

  Harper snorted. “And you can bet your ass the Chinese will say exactly that in the media.”

  A ripple of tension passed over the table, unspoken yet understood by all. The weight of the moment hung between them like an unspoken truth, thick with the gravity of impending conflict. Miriama leaned back in her chair, allowing the silence to stretch, commanding the room with stillness before she finally spoke.

  "Then we make sure they don’t get the chance.” Miriama stood. “If everyone has finished, shall we move to the Sitting Room?"

  Despite its name, the Sitting Room was anything but an idle space. It was designed for comfort and discretion during high-level meetings—not just among cabinet members but also for hosting foreign dignitaries and military advisors. It was Miriama’s favourite room in the house, a place where the echoes of history whispered from the walls. Rich wooden panelling gave the room a stately air, while deep red leather button-tucked seating exuded a sense of both luxury and endurance. Warm yellow walls were adorned with photographs and memorabilia from the nation's past, testaments to struggle and triumph. She often spent her nights alone here, lost in the pages of a book, finding solace in history as she shaped the future.

  Folding herself into a leather armchair, Miriama fixed each member of her war cabinet with a steady gaze, ensuring she had their full attention.

  "Craig," she began, directing her focus to her deputy. "Tell me about Fiji."

  Du Plessis nodded, exhaling slowly before answering. "Well, Kevin has already covered the military side in detail, so let me tell you what my people have been doing. As part of our agreement with the Fijians, the new super green fuel terminal and processing plant we built for them is almost complete. Unlike some, we keep our promises." He leaned back slightly before continuing. "Apparently, they’ve started production ahead of schedule. Once it's fully operational, Fiji will act as a hub for all the surrounding islands. The rest is smaller stuff—tidal and wind energy infrastructure projects you’re already aware of. With what we’ve put into them so far, their economy is booming, their unemployment is down, and their shop shelves are full. The other islands are feeling a strong trickledown effect and are also climbing."

  For the first time that morning, Miriama allowed herself a small smile. It felt foreign. Lately, good news had been a rare commodity.

  "That’s great news," she admitted before turning to Derek Harper. "Tell me about the world, Derek. How are they seeing this?"

  Harper rubbed his temples before answering. "For now, they’re mostly in our corner," he said, his voice measured. "Everything we’ve done so far has been above board, and we’ve played it to the absolute letter of the law. That said, the Solomons are a bitch of a problem." His expression darkened slightly. "They need to be handled delicately. The world is fickle, and they love China’s money, if the world thinks we’re overstaying our welcome, it could hurt us greatly."

  Miriama sighed. "Noted. We’ll have to keep that in mind, I’ll discuss it with John Mitchell in the morning."

  Her eyes moved to Kevin MacNielty. "Alright, Kevin, your turn. Give me a bare-bones assessment of the military. If this thing starts—and I’m damn sure it will—are we ready?"

  MacNielty paused, considering his response carefully. "Honestly? Yes, our forces are ready. But that’s not the right question."

  Craig frowned. "What is the right question?"

  Kevin’s gaze was steady. "It’s whether or not we have enough. I don’t need to remind you—China has almost three million armed personnel, over four hundred ships, thousands of tanks, planes—"

  "We get the point, Kevin," Miriama cut in, her tone sharp but not unkind.

  "Sorry, I’m not trying to be a downer," MacNielty replied with a placating gesture, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. "Just providing perspective. The second cruiser, Orakau, is almost complete and due for sea trials soon. The last two Kahu-class corvettes and Mako-class submarines we ordered will be delivered next week, bringing us to ten for each class. That gives us a total of fifty-six active ships. Between the Navy and Air Force, we have around four hundred aircraft, and with reserves called up, we have nearly four divisions in the Army—about sixty thousand personnel, with a hundred tanks and several hundred APC’s. In total we have just under a hundred thousand personnel across all three services."

  He let the numbers settle in the air before continuing. "Don’t get me wrong. What we have is a far cry from where we were a decade ago, and with our still modest population, it’s downright astounding! Recruitment is still through the roof and everything we field is top-of-the-line. But like I said—perspective."

  Miriama folded her hands together. "Do we have any advantages?"

  MacNielty nodded. "Yes, we have two and in my opinion, the best two. First, they underestimate us at every turn. We can use that. Second, simply put—we’re better. The money we’ve spent on automation, weapons technology, exercises and training, and military research over the last decade means we match them in capability, and in many cases, we surpass them. They just have the numbers, and that’s what will kill us. The Aussies, Canadians, and the Brits—when they finally get here—will help even the odds a little. But not by much, all told we’ll reach maybe a quarter of their numbers. We’re still going to be relying heavily on the Americans."

  Craig scoffed. "And they won’t let us forget it, either. When are the British getting here anyway?"

  “They were waylaid for some time around Africa, but I am reliably informed that they will make landfall in Australia within the next few days.”

  Miriama’s gaze flickered to Oliver Walker, her senior advisor, silently inviting him to contribute. He shook his head subtly, indicating he would hold his counsel for now.

  Then MacNielty spoke again. "There has been one interesting development though. One of our special operations teams discovered some kind of intelligence installation high in the mountains of Santa Isabel."

  "Yes," Charles Sinclair, Director of NZSIS, interjected. "I was just about to mention that myself. We've had eyes on it since the team got there, but we can’t make sense of it. Sometimes it operates like a tracking station, other times a listening post, and at other times something else entirely. It’s like something out of a Bond film, only without the cool factor."

  Miriama raised an eyebrow. "Options?"

  "We have three," MacNielty answered. "We can infiltrate and see what we find, I can have the team pull out and schedule Sky Guardian drones from Fiji to overfly and monitor it, or we can destroy it. That call is yours."

  She let the words settle, then slowly smiled—a predator’s grin hidden beneath the mask of a stateswoman.

  "Let’s see what we find," she decided. "Send them in."

  ***

  Santa Isabel, Solomon Islands – 0145 Hours

  The jungle was alive with the low hum of insects and the gentle rustling of leaves in the humid night air. Dark figures moved soundlessly through the undergrowth, their weapons held at the ready.

  Mathews crouched behind a thick tangle of roots, studying the installation through his monocular. The facility sat atop a ridgeline, nestled between dense jungle and jagged rock formations. The compound was comprised of several squat buildings, prefabricated but reinforced, their exteriors bearing just enough Mandarin script and Chinese military insignia to suggest a PLA installation. But something was off. The radio frequencies they were monitoring weren’t matching standard Chinese transmissions.

  “Blake, you seeing what I’m seeing?” Mathews whispered, handing off the monocular.

  Staff Sergeant Callum Blake, his face half-hidden by camouflage paint, took a careful look. He was the intelligence specialist, trained to pick apart deception.

  “This isn’t right,” Blake murmured. “Those markings are old, a fa?ade. The broadcast channels are shifting erratically, not encrypted to PLA standards. We’re supposed to think they’re the Chinese, but they’re not doing a great job of it. It’s weird though, they’re definitely professionals, the way they’re carrying themselves, its fucked how sloppy they are with this, against everything else.”

  Lance Corporal Toby McKenna adjusted his radio pack. “You think it’s private sector?”

  “Could be,” Blake said, “but I’d wager intelligence work—someone’s running a shadow op under Beijing’s nose.”

  Mathews exhaled sharply, as a small light flashed on the radio, indicating a burst transmission. McKenna hit the decrypt key and the message flashed up on the screen. They had been ordered to infiltrate the installation, and they had weapons free. “Let’s find out.”

  They moved in, low and fast. From his secure position Edwards, their designated marksman, covered their approach, rifle trained on the guard towers. There were two visible sentries, their postures relaxed—overconfident.

  Mathews tapped his mike twice and Edwards fired. Two suppressed shots, two bodies crumpling silently.

  The team advanced, darting across the compound perimeter and planting charges as they went. At the main entrance, McKenna worked fast, splicing into the compound’s security feeds. The interior schematics flickered onto his wrist display, just as two men in mismatched Chinese uniforms came around the corner. Before they could even raise their weapons or raise the alarm, the thick burly arm of Gillard wrapped around the first. Covering the man’s mouth, Gilliard’s surgically sharp knife, pierced the guard’s ribcage and shredded his heart. Blake disposed of the other guard, just as quickly and in a similar fashion.

  “Two floors, underground section,” McKenna whispered. “Looks like lots of accommodation, we should expect heavy resistance.”

  Mathews nodded. “Shane, anyone moving through the windows?”

  “Wait one…” Pfft, pfft. “Not anymore, you’re clear for as far as I can see.”

  “Blake, take McKenna below. Gillard, you’re with me, Shane call in the bird, one way or another this is going to be over quickly, keep us covered.”

  The only response was a double mic click. The team eased stealthily through the entryway, weapons sweeping corners in smooth, practiced arcs firing at anything moving. They made it through the first level leaving a trail of bodies behind, silence their ally against the superior numbers.

  But their luck didn’t hold, and gunfire erupted down the hallway they had just turned into. A trio of guards emerged from a side corridor and spotted them, raising their rifles—Mathews and Gillard cut them down before they could fire a second burst, but the damage was done, the noise had shattered the silence, and the installation was waking up

  Blake’s team pivoted right, heading for the second level.

  McKenna, took point, covering their descent. More hostiles appeared—these ones better equipped, moving with military precision.

  “Not Chinese,” Blake grunted, taking cover behind a steel crate. “Western tactics.”

  McKenna fired a suppressed burst, downing a hostile. “Who the hell are these guys?”

  The response came in the form of a frag grenade bouncing down the corridor. The team scattered, hugging cover as the explosion sent shrapnel rattling through the confined space.

  Mathews keyed his radio. “Blake?”

  “We’re good. Engaged with unknown hostiles. Continuing mission.”

  Pushing deeper, they reached what appeared to be a server room. The door had biometric locks—McKenna bypassed them in under twenty seconds.

  Inside, banks of monitors displayed satellite feeds, maps, and an array of classified intelligence streams. Blake skimmed the data scrolling across the screens. It was all here, even the Chinese were being monitored.

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “They’re tracking naval deployments across the Pacific—ours, the Australians’, the Yanks’. Someone’s been very busy!”

  Mathews came in and looked over his shoulder. “Any idea who?”

  Blake shook his head. “Nope, but this is some scary shit, there’s command codes, intel frequency secure radio nets, the works.” Over the next few minutes, he meticulously disconnected and then yanked several hard drives from their housings. “We take this back.”

  Before they could leave, the sound of boots on steel grated down the corridor. Reinforcements. Heavily armed. As a wave of hostiles appeared at the end of the hall, the men didn’t hesitate, opening fire with well aimed shots, dropping the enemy before they had a chance to react.

  With a moments respite, Blake turned to Mathews. “we can’t leave this behind boss. Ity’s far too dangerous.”

  “Burn it!” Mathews replied, nodding, “all of it!”

  Blake primed a thermite charge and tossed it into the server room.

  “Time to move!” Mathews snapped.

  They fought their way back to the surface, moving as one lethal entity. The men laying down suppressive fire, as they moved out in bounding fashion, one by one sprinting for the exfil point on the ridge above.

  The Blackhawk was inbound, blades cutting through the night air.

  As they lifted off, fire blossomed inside the facility, consuming whatever secrets hadn’t been extracted.

  Mathews glanced at Blake. “We need to figure out who the hell we just stole from.”

  Blake secured the hard drives in a back pack. “And who they’re working for.”

  The Blackhawk veered south, disappearing into the darkened Pacific sky. An MQ-9B Sky Guardian came in behind them a little later and fired two joint strike missiles into the compound, leaving nothing but a crater in the hillside.

  ***

  Back at Henderson Field, the air hummed with the steady thrum of heavy aircraft engines and the distant chatter of personnel going about their business. The ANZAC forward operations centre, housed in a reinforced temporary structure, was alive with activity as intelligence specialists hunched over terminals, their fingers flying across keyboards cracking into the hard drives the SAS team had extracted.

  Captain Mathews and Staff Sergeant Blake stood to one side debriefing the General and watching as lines of code flickered across the monitors. A younger analyst, his uniform still crisp despite the heat, let out a low whistle.

  "Well, this is interesting."

  General Lachie Patterson strode over to the young man, the weight of command evident in his every step. His uniform was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up—this was not the kind of situation where formality mattered.

  "Talk to me," he ordered, coming to a halt behind the lead analyst, a grizzled veteran of military intelligence named Lieutenant James Halford.

  Halford barely looked up, his focus fixed on the data unspooling before him. "Sir, the facility was originally Chinese, but they must have lost control of it when the fighting kicked off. What’s interesting is that it wasn’t abandoned. Someone else moved in, and they weren’t just squatting. They turned it into something... different."

  "Different how?" Patterson asked, his eyes narrowing.

  Halford pulled up a series of decrypted documents, bringing up schematics, logs, and fragments of communications. "The equipment we recovered—it’s a mix of Chinese and... something else. Some of it’s Western, some of it’s Russian. Whoever these guys were, they were pulling tech from everywhere."

  Blake folded his arms, his brow furrowed. "Who the hell are we dealing with?"

  "That’s the thing," Halford muttered, scrolling through intercepted messages. "They don’t match any known group. No state actors, no regular PMCs, no cartels. These guys were ghosts."

  Mathews leaned forward. "Any indication of what they were doing there? Signals intelligence, weapons development, smuggling?"

  Halford shook his head. "A bit of everything. It was a listening post, sure, but there are records of biological shipments, encrypted files referencing drone warfare, and—get this—satellite tracking overlays with routes that make no damn sense. They weren’t just watching the Solomons. They were watching the entire Indo-Pacific."

  Patterson exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the glowing screens. "This isn’t staying here. Get it loaded onto a secure bird. I want all of this in Canberra within the next twelve hours."

  Halford hesitated. "Sir, with all due respect, I’d prefer to complete the decryption here. If we move it too soon, we might—"

  "No." Patterson’s voice was quiet but firm. "This is so far above our pay grade. If this operation goes any deeper, we need the full weight of the people properly trained to deal with it, no disrespect to your abilities, but pack it up, now!"

  The room went still for a moment before the analysts began moving. Mathews exchanged a glance with Blake, both men understanding the weight of what had just happened.

  Whatever they had uncovered, it was big. And it wasn’t over yet.