Ruapehu Lodge, New Zealand – High-Level Strategic Meeting

  The convoy of dark SUVs wound their way up the mountain road, climbing through dense beech forests as the morning sun cut across the peaks of the Ruapehu Ranges. A crisp wind carried the scent of alpine air, untouched and pristine. It was the kind of place that made a person feel small—something even the world’s most powerful figures weren’t immune to.

  As the vehicles pulled up to the secluded lodge, a small delegation of New Zealand officials stood waiting on the gravel driveway. Prime Minister Miriama Kahu, clad in a dark wool coat, nodded in greeting as the Americans stepped out of their cars.

  President Ellen Carter took in the view, letting out an impressed whistle. “I have to say, Miriama, you weren’t exaggerating. This place is spectacular.”

  Kahu’s smile was tight. “That’s why we fight so damn hard to defend it.”

  A similar scene had played out several minutes before when the Australians had arrived, but the pleasantries ended there.

  Inside the warm wooden confines of the lodge, a large open fire roared, warming the room from the cold morning mountain air. A large conference table dominated the main room, the flag of New Zealand stood in one corner, flanked by those of Australia, Canada, the United Kingdom, and the United States. A secure satellite uplink was already establishing connections with London and Ottawa.

  In attendance at this meeting was the Prime minster along with the ministers for defence and Foreign Affairs of New Zealand and Australia, including their respective heads of defence forces. Joining them and on her first official visit to New Zealand, was the American President Ellen Carter, with her was the National Security Advisor Michael Harrington, Secretary of Defence Linda Caldwell, and Secretary of State Thomas Grayson. Also in attendance was Miriama Kahu’s most trusted advisor and aide, Olver Walker.

  Via Secure Uplink was the Prime Ministers and Ministers of Defence and Foreign affairs as well as the head of their respective defence forces from the United Kingdom, and Canada. With steaming cups of coffee placed in front of them by navy stewards, the leaders took their seats as the satellite link stabilized, the British and Canadian leaders appearing on the large screen at the head of the table.

  Kahu took a measured breath before speaking. “We’re here today because, whether we like it or not, the balance of power in the Pacific has shifted and the world is taking notice. We all know what happened to Te Kaha and Canterbury during the last time the Chinese attacked our naval forces openly in the pacific. China has pulled back to areas around the Second Island Chain for now, but their probing hasn’t stopped—they’re just being more subtle about it, one of our submarines chased off one of theirs in the Philippines sea just last week. They are getting bolder again.”

  She turned to Carter. “Ellen, your carrier groups are providing much needed balance in the region supplementing our own, while our forces secure the Solomons, but the longer we stay, the greater the risk of the world seeing our presence as an occupation rather than protection. I am reliably informed that China is already pushing that narrative in the UN general assembly, it’s only a matter of time before they start leveraging their influence against us on the world stage.”

  John Mitchell, the Australian Prime Minister, leaned forward. “That’s about the crux of it. ANZAC forces are in the Solomons to prevent Chinese expansion and protect regional sovereignty. But at what point does the world decide we’re overstaying our welcome?”

  Michael Harrington, the U.S. National Security Advisor, tapped his pen against the table. “Let’s be clear—Beijing’s strategy is working. They’re playing the long game here. They know they’ll struggle to push us head-on, so they’ll try to undermine us diplomatically. Pressure the UN, court Pacific Island nations with soft power and grey-tactics, and use their influence to paint us as the aggressors.”

  “That Grey power bullshit won’t work for much longer,” MacNielty stated confidently. “Not on the cyber front at least. Our Cyberwarfare industry in conjunction with all of yours has had great success in not only keeping them out but pushing back as well. We have mobile teams setting up similar systems in the islands now. We won’t be caught out again like we were last summer.”

  The British Prime Minister, Richard Winslow, nodded grimly from the screen. “That’s excellent news, but they’ll still turn every local grievance into a reason to demand our withdrawal. Stir up discontent, manufacture protests, pressure the Pacific governments—this is what they do.”

  Derek Harper frowned. “And if we pull out of the Solomans? What then? China moves right back in under the pretext of ‘stabilization efforts’ and we have gained nothing, I can’t imagine the reprisals for the Solomon people would be all that pleasant either.”

  General Caleb Hartwell, Australia’s Chief of Defence, folded his arms. “And we lose the region. And we all know what happens after that.”

  A heavy silence settled over the room.

  President Carter leaned back, considering her words. “No one here wants a war. But we also can’t afford to be naive. The question is—how do we maintain our presence without giving China an easy propaganda win?”

  Derek Harper, New Zealand’s Foreign Minister, glanced at his Australian counterpart, Katie DuPhries. “We’ve been talking about reinforcing local governance. More economic investment, training for law enforcement, diplomatic support. We have already ‘donated’ considerable defense equipment to the Solomans, it’s mostly older stuff including the frigate Te Mana, but it’s still top of the line, plus we’ve offered cheap patrol boats and military training, anything we can do to lift them up, and we’ve made it damn clear they owe us nothing for it. That’s a damn sight better deal than they ever got from the Chinese!”

  “We’ve done the same.” Papadopoulos stated, nodding his head in agreement.

  “We’ve also sent engineers to rebuild what they’ve lost, if we can make it clear we’re strengthening their independence, not controlling them, we undercut China’s argument.” MacNielty said,

  Harriet Langston, Britain’s Foreign Minister, added, “We also need a stronger Pacific coalition. More integration with Fiji, Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu—bring them in as equal partners, not just beneficiaries.”

  Thomas Grayson, the U.S. Secretary of State, nodded. “You mean a re-look at SEATO? That’s something we can work with. If the Pacific nations themselves are advocating for our continued presence, it weakens Beijing’s position.”

  Brigette Leclerc, Canada’s Defence Minister, checked her notes. “And militarily? If we pull back too much, we look weak. A SEATO type agreement does give us a more legitimate legal standing.”

  Kevin MacNielty, New Zealand’s Defence Minister, responded, “We can’t just sit there with boots on the ground indefinitely. But if we shift to a more mobile, rapid-response posture, with stronger naval and air assets, we maintain deterrence without an overt occupation footprint.”

  “If we do have to pull back, and your boys and girls can handle the heat, Australia welcomes you for as long as you need. Darwin is a great little town and the surfing is awesome!” John Mitchell stated.

  Vice Admiral Malachi Mason, who was overseeing U.S. carrier operations in the Pacific, by request of the Prime Minister’s office had submitted a report ahead of the meeting. Kahu paraphrased his conclusions. “Mason suggests leveraging our carrier groups as a stabilizing presence, focusing on joint exercises rather than permanent basing. It keeps us engaged without making us a fixed target He suggests that the carriers continue their circular patrol pattern through the South China, Arafura, Coral and Philippine seas.”

  “Can you sustain that?” Carter asked Kahu directly, who nodded to Air Marshal Robson.

  “No madame President, not with our carrier, as you know we only have the one and it has been on constant patrol for almost a year now, very soon we will have to bring it home for maintenance.” Robson stated. “We do have other assets, we have considerably sped up the final fitting out phase of our last two cruiser purchases, they should be ready for trials within the month, and we can continue to patrol with transferring the flagship to one of the other cruisers until Tangaroa is ready to go out again.”

  “We can cover our end, Melbourne will also need to come in for maintenance, but our second carrier Australia has just completed sea trials, so we can maintain a presence, especially with the two Royal Navy flattops and the Americans in the area.” Mitchell stated.

  Carter exhaled, looking between the gathered leaders. “It’s a fine line. But we need to walk it. We stay, we protect, but we make sure the world sees why we’re there.”

  Thomas Bouchard gave a firm nod. “Then we do this right. A joint statement. A clear strategy. And a unified front, bringing in all the islands.”

  Miriama Kahu looked around the table. The burden was heavy, but it was a good plan, and the path forward was clear.

  ***

  Christmas came and went, a fleeting pause in the relentless march of time. New Year’s celebrations flickered across the Pacific, brief sparks of levity in a world where the underlying tensions these days were never far from the surface. The clock struck midnight in various corners of the globe, and for a moment, it seemed like the world could finally take a breath and relax, savouring the fleeting joy of the occasion. But that stillness was deceptive, a mere illusion—a calm before the storm. The People's Republic of China, the dragon, long silent in its intentions, watched and waited.

  The Pacific lay in its serene beauty, the waves shimmering like liquid sapphire under the pale glow of a hazy morning sky. To the casual observer, it was the very image of tranquillity: lazy sun filled days and endless, placid waters stretching out across the horizon, seemingly unmarred by the geopolitical tempest brewing within. But beneath the surface, the dragon awoke, and it was hungry for vengeance—silent, methodical, and terrifyingly precise, and without warning, all hell broke loose.

  The first signs of trouble was a few subtle ripples in the SOSUS data streams—anomalies that seemed to emerge from nowhere. Tracks. Dozens of them. At first, operators at Pine Gap and Irirangi were lulled into thinking it was just a routine signal glitch or perhaps a false alarm, it had happened before, but not on this scale. But as the data continued to flood in, the gravity of the situation became more and more apparent. These tracks were not isolated incidents; they were part of a much larger and far more terrifying pattern—coordinated, intentional, and ominously deliberate.

  Some of those tracks were easy to dismiss. Drones, expertly designed to mimic the signature of military assets, danced across the screens, their movements erratic and obviously programmed to confuse and disorient. These decoys were quickly sorted from the clutter, or easily dispatched with armed drones of their own, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it seemed as though the crisis could be averted with little more than a few tactical misfires. But as more and more data came in, the reality of what was unfolding settled in with brutal clarity: hundreds of tracks remained, many subsurface, many moving with purpose.

  The vastness of the Pacific, the very expanse that had once seemed to provide a measure of security, now felt like a trap. Submarines, some of the most stealthy and dangerous vessels in existence, were emerging from the depths, their presence masked by sophisticated counter-surveillance measures. Surface and subsurface forces were deployed in haste to track and intercept. The Americans, ever vigilant, were called in to help, but even their vast underwater capabilities seemed stretched thin. There were just so many.

  The sheer number of unidentified objects on the SOSUS screens was staggering. Dozens of these tracks were moving in parallel, converging in a pattern that suggested a coordinated strike on multiple locations, while others danced unpredictably, their erratic movement making it impossible to pinpoint their origin or possible target. There was no way to verify every one of them; they could be anything. A lurking submarine. A surface vessel. Or something else entirely.

  Operators in both Australia and New Zealand worked frantically, their eyes darting across screens filled with disorienting data. Decisions had to be made, but there was no time to wait for confirmation. They were forced to rely on experience, gut instinct, and best-guess judgment calls. It was the kind of split-second decision-making that often separated success from failure in the murky world of intelligence operations.

  As the pressure mounted, flash traffic alerts were sent to all commands and more resources were scrambled. Submarines were pulled from other missions and dispatched immediately to intercept the most concerning tracks, diving into the abyss, their engines humming with a low, menacing growl as they disappeared into the deep blue. Surface forces, including everything from fast frigates to slow-moving carrier groups, were hastily redirected to the most probable hot zones. In the background, satellite operators tried to narrow the scope of the threat, pushing their systems to the limit, but even the most sophisticated tracking systems couldn’t capture every anomaly.

  The situation was spiralling out of control. Communication lines between agencies buzzed with urgency, the allied nations of the Pacific relying on each other for survival. Each asset that was deployed felt like a drop in a vast ocean—too many unknowns, too many potential threats, and no way of knowing which ones were real. The tracks just kept coming—overwhelming, endless. For the first time in years, the Pacific didn’t feel like a safe, distant sanctuary. It felt like the calm before the storm was finally breaking.

  ***

  The joint military command had exceeded expectations, the two carriers—one American, one from New Zealand—were patrolling with their joint groups just north of the Solomons, a steadfast presence in an uncertain world, for now blissfully unaware of the storm approaching. Even the Americans, famously exacting in their standards, had come to respect the seamless efficiency of the coalition fleet. The Kiwis, Australians, and British had integrated with near-flawless precision, proving that while their carriers were smaller, they were no less deadly. The smaller force of Canadians in theatre were just as efficient and equally welcome.

  That new year’s morning had begun with a Replenishment at Sea, a delicate ballet of steel and seamanship. As a conventionally powered vessel, HMNZS Tangaroa required periodic refuelling. With a capacity of 8,000 tons of naval diesel, the 81,000-ton aircraft carrier was a thirsty girl. Although the carrier took priority, alongside her, the rest of the New Zealand, Australian, and Canadian task force followed suit. The refuelling operation was led by HMNZS Aotearoa, the pride of New Zealand’s replenishment fleet, a vessel designed for endurance and rapid sustainment of front-line warships. Supporting her was the Canadian HMCS Protecteur. Together they topped off the tanks of the fleet, even a few Americans joined the queue.

  On Tangaroa’s bridge, Captain Scott Hutchinson stood with his arms folded, eyes locked on the looming grey bulk of Aotearoa. His Executive Officer, Commander Cayden MacNiell, out on the starboard bridge wing leading the RAS, kept one eye on the two ships and the other on monitoring the fuelling probe’s slow extension through his binoculars, issuing a steady stream of minute course corrections until he was satisfied.

  “Steady as she goes,” he murmured, though he never took his eyes off the scene.

  Hutchinson smiled with pride at the way his crew performed. “Engineering, confirm fuel line pressure.”

  “Steady at optimal, sir,” a young engineering officer replied, voice crisp with concentration.

  Outside, over the open radio channel, the calm voice of Aotearoa’s commanding officer, Captain Jackson Fordei, filtered through. “Tangaroa, you’re locked in. We have good flow.”

  “Acknowledged, Aotearoa,” Hutchinson chuckled. “That joke never gets old.”

  Vice Admiral Malachi Mason, also out on Tangaroa’s bridge wing, watched the operation like a hawk. With decades of experience in naval command, he understood the ever-present risks and very real dangers of a maneuver like this. A moment’s lapse in judgment, an unexpected swell, or a miscalculation in speed could have disastrous consequences—fuel spills, snapped lines, even collisions and fire was a very real threat in that instance.

  However, the Kiwis were used to doing this in the turbulent seas of the Southern Ocean, so in the relative calm of the Pacific, there wasn’t much to concern them. Like a well-practiced orchestra, the two giant grey steel warships maintained their delicate proximity, their crews adjusting with microscopic precision. Fuel lines extended and locked into place, transferring thousands of litres per minute, while helo and Osprey crews transferred pallets of stores to the deck—food, spare parts, and whatever else they needed.

  On the command bridge of the USS Enterprise, Rear Admiral Samantha Garrett watched the spectacle unfold through the large glass panels. She stood with her arms resting on the window sill, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

  “Impressive,” she admitted.

  Her Chief of Staff, Commander Mark Reynolds, leaned slightly closer. “Ma’am?”

  “The New Zealanders,” Garrett said, nodding toward the manoeuvring ships. “Flawless execution. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a carrier conduct a full RAS.”

  Reynolds exhaled, arms crossed. “It’s been a long time since we needed to. Nuclear propulsion made refuelling obsolete for the big decks, and we don’t often do sling transfers anymore, unless the weather grounds the helos.”

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  “Still, look at that, we’re watching a masterclass in seamanship Mark.” Garrett gestured toward the formation as, one by one, the rest of the New Zealand task force fell seamlessly into position. While the carrier was still refuelling, the HMNZS Achilles slid along the opposite side of Aotearoa. The large cruiser, a sleek silhouette bristling with armament. Then came the destroyers and the frigates, each moving with the same disciplined coordination.

  “That Achilles is a beast,” Reynolds observed. “She’s massive and packed to the gunnels. I saw her Aegis loadout—SM-6s, Tomahawks, ESSMs, the works. Makes you wish the Tico’s were still around.”

  Garrett nodded. “Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end, that’s for damn sure. They’ve come so far in such a short time and look at them—it’s like they’ve been doing carrier ops for decades, not just a few years. I’ll never admit this to Mason, but credit where it’s due, we could learn a few things from them.”

  She didn’t notice the incredulous look from the man behind her.

  Several hours later, down below, on the refuelling deck of Aotearoa, Chief Petty Officer Kieran Malone oversaw the operation with an experienced eye. His voice rang out over the comms. “We’re holding at one hundred percent flow. No fluctuations. By my count, you’re about 95 percent done, Tangaroa.”

  From the carrier, MacNiell responded, “Copy that, Aotearoa. We’ll complete transfer in fifteen.”

  Once complete, both replenishment ships would break formation and head to a quick stop at Honiara to restock their supplies and take on fuel for the long patrol through the South China sea. The two Kuhu-class corvettes would be escorting them before they too would break off for convoy duty.

  Back on Enterprise, the Americans continued to watch with interest as the New Zealanders executed the complex evolution with minimal fuss. It was a small thing in the grand scope of naval operations, but it spoke volumes to their ability.

  Garrett turned to Reynolds. “If Beijing is watching—and they are—they’ll see that we’re not just present. We’re ready. I’ll admit, when I first got here, I probably thought the same way they still do, arrogantly believing that the New Zealanders and Australians were a soft backwater nothing burger of a military. But observing them over the last month or two, how they’ve handled themselves, I know my mind is blown, and the Chinese have no fucking idea what they’re getting themselves into.”

  Reynolds inclined his head slightly. “Think they’ll make a move, Admiral?”

  Garrett’s expression darkened. “They will. The only question is when.”

  As the final fuel lines were retracted and the ships prepared to resume formation, the sun broke through the morning haze, casting a golden shimmer across the calm blue sea. But beneath the surface of that tranquil expanse, tension coiled, waiting for the inevitable storm to break.

  ***

  At Pine Gap and HMNZS Irirangi, the situation was deteriorating by the minute. What had started as a series of unsettling tracks on the SOSUS net had quickly escalated into something far worse. Early warning satellites were picking up multiple airborne tracks—not one or two, but a multitude, lifting off from the Chinese mainland and heading east and south east, cutting through the vast expanse of the Pacific. It wasn’t just a single faceted potential strike anymore. It was a calculated, strategic move from multiple sources. What had once seemed like a manageable crisis now felt like a disaster unfolding before their very eyes.

  The data streams were choked with these incoming tracks, and at Irirangi, operators were scrambling to make sense of them, racing against time. Then, the unthinkable happened. An almost forgotten alarm suddenly blared: ballistic missile launch detected. The chilling sound of the mechanical computerised warning echoed through the stations, a sharp, jagged break in the sterile hum of the control rooms and several bowels turned to liquid.

  The weight of the moment hit like a physical blow. Satellites immediately pivoted, orienting themselves towards known nuclear missile launch sites on the Chinese mainland. Every operator held their breath, eyes locked on their screens. The minutes stretched into eternity as they watched for any sign of the massive, earth-shattering payloads that could potentially level the world.

  But the ICBM signatures didn’t appear. Nothing. Silence. The nuclear silos remained undisturbed, and in that moment, an unspoken sigh of relief reverberated across both bases. But that relief was short-lived, when many more missile tracks suddenly appeared from multiple locations throughout the pacific. There was only one conclusion left to draw: China had unleashed their ballistic cruise missiles and anti-ship batteries—fast, agile, and capable of slipping past defences with frightening efficiency.

  It was a new type of warfare, one that blended stealth and precision. These were not the clumsy, slow-moving missiles of old. These were sophisticated systems designed for speed, for evasion, and to penetrate even the most advanced missile defense systems.

  With seconds ticking away, more flash traffic alerts were sent out with extreme urgency. The message: imminent missile attack. It wasn’t a drill. It wasn’t a warning. It was real. Everyone—from high-ranking flag officers to field commanders in remote outposts—were pulled into the fray. The network was overwhelmed with a rapid, almost chaotic exchange of messages, each one tinged with the same grim sense of urgency.

  As seconds ticked over into minutes the picture started to become clear, this was a first strike. They had almost missed it in the clutter, but Taiwan, with so little warning had taken several devastating hits. They were shooting back, their own considerable defences working hard, but only time would tell if would be enough. American bases in Guam, Okinawa, Japan and South Korea took also with little warning took punishing hits. They weren’t as bad off as the Taiwanese, but they were still hurt badly, Guam was almost immediately and for the foreseeable future out of action. Bases in Japan and South Korea, aided by the local defence forces fared better but not by much.

  As the Aegis-at-Home network roared to life along the coastlines of Australia, New Zealand, and the many islands that had been fortunate enough to receive the latest radar and defence technology, the atmosphere shifted. The network of radar installations, designed to pick up every possible threat, came alive with a vicious energy. The electromagnetic pulses that flooded the skies were so intense that even the smallest, most inconspicuous objects—a bird, a plane—could be obliterated mid-flight. The sheer power of the system was staggering, but it was a desperate measure, one that could only provide fleeting moments of protection against the missile swarm now racing toward them.

  The sound of radar systems and missile interceptors locking onto targets filled the airwaves. Operators worked at lightning speed, running algorithms to predict missile trajectories, launching countermeasures, and directing assets in real-time. The Aegis system, a technological marvel, spun its radar waves out in all directions, SM-3 and SM-6 missiles augmented by HELIOS-TWK Mk1 solid state Laser systems, scanning the heavens for the incoming threats. A tidal wave of data flooded the operators’ screens, but even with all the technology at their disposal, the question remained: would it be enough?

  The atmosphere was tense, thick with the weight of what was unfolding. Each moment felt like it could be the one when the missiles finally broke through the defense net and reached their target. The radar screens were ablaze with blips, some small, some large—decoys, decoys everywhere, but still too many real threats, too many unanswered questions. Every missile had to be accounted for, every defensive measure executed with perfect precision.

  And when they came, the system unleashed it’s violence, missiles roared into the heavens on columns of flame and thick white smoke. The HELIOS systems erupted spurting streams of highly charged red light time and time again. Less than ten percent of the missiles got through.

  ***

  Across the vast oceanic expanse, two Chinese Type 004 carrier groups cut through the Pacific like silent predators, mirroring the movements of their American counterparts. Onboard the Guangxi, Vice Admiral Wang Zhen surveyed the unfolding drama in the operations centre. His face, a mask of cold calculation, betrayed no emotion as his fleet advanced. J-35 fighter jets sat lined up on the deck, their sleek forms a testament to China's military ambition. Each pilot on high alert, had been briefed on their mission already, all too aware that the waters of the Pacific were about to become the most dangerous place in the world.

  An Australian reconnaissance plane had been shadowing them for hours—too long for Wang Zhen's liking. The ISR aircraft was becoming an irritation, an ever-present eye in the sky, gathering information on their fleet’s movements. It had to be dealt with. He gave the order, and a Chinese frigate, hidden among the shadows of the fleet, unleashed a barrage of surface-to-air missiles. The Australians tried valiantly to evade, but their slow, cumbersome Poseidon didn’t stand a chance. The missile salvo hit with deadly precision, and in an instant, the RAAF P-8 vanished in a fiery explosion. There was no time for a mayday. A massive fireball erupted in the early morning sky, and minutes later, the ocean claimed the wreckage. Hours later with dawn approaching, the rising sun illuminated the scene, casting an eerie glow over the floating debris.

  To the east, on an American E-2D Hawkeye airborne early-warning aircraft, radar operators saw a sudden surge in activity from the Chinese fleet. Multiple J-35 fighters launched in unison from both carriers, one every thirty seconds, their sleek bodies cutting through the air like sharks, ready for the kill, their own AWACS craft, joining the fray and directing them to their targets. The sky was now filled with the promise of Chinese aggression, and on the surface, they were backed up by Type 055 destroyers and Type 052D frigates, positioning themselves in formation, the intent clear—they were hungry for blood.

  On the USS Carl Vinson, the first alarms sounded. “TAO, multiple bogeys inbound,” a radar operator called out, his voice taut with urgency. “They’re closing fast—less than 200 miles out.”

  “Scramble the CAP,” barked Rear Admiral William Raines moments later. “Get every bird in the air now. Alert the fleet.”

  The flight deck erupted into action. F-35C Lightning IIs, F/A-18E Super Hornets, and EA-18G Growlers shot off the decks of both the USS Carl Vinson and the USS Abraham Lincoln, their afterburners lighting up the mid-morning sky, leaving behind a trail of incandescent fire. But the Chinese attack had long since begun.

  Hours ago from deep within the heart of the Chinese mainland, the first of many salvoes of DF-21D "carrier-killer" ballistic missiles had screamed into the atmosphere, an unstoppable tide of destruction. The group had received the warnings from the Australians and New Zealanders but had assumed wrongly that they would only target shore based sites. At the same time, Type 093 nuclear submarines, which had been shadowing the American fleet for days, launched a devastating barrage of their own missiles followed by a swarm of torpedoes aimed squarely at the heart of the American fleet, before moving in to overwhelm the American’s escort subs.

  “Missiles inbound!” a tactical officer on the Carl Vinson shouted, the warning tearing through the control room like a shockwave. Alarm klaxons blared across the fleet, their high-pitched wails reverberating through the hulls of each ship.

  “Activate CIWS and SM-6 interceptors!” the TAO shouted, his hand gripping the edge of the command console as if it could steady the ship itself.

  The American fleet’s Argis driven layered missile defences came to life, launching a desperate counterattack. The system performed as flawlessly as it was meant to, with standard missile interceptors streaking skyward, their fiery trails cutting through the sky. Close-In Weapon Systems slaved to Aegis combat systems roared to life, spewing streams of fiery rounds into the air. The system was perfect and did exactly what it was supposed to do, the only limitation it faced, was the number of rounds in the tin and missiles in the box. In sheer spite of it’s speed and precision in dealing with the incoming threats, the sheer volume of the oncoming Chinese missiles proved to be more than a match for the layered defences.

  Of course most missiles were intercepted, their trails disintegrating harmlessly in the air. But then, the unthinkable happened. Two DF-21Ds broke through the storm of defence systems. The first missile struck the USS Abraham Lincoln, crashing through an open elevator door and slamming into a cluster of parked aircraft. The resulting explosion was catastrophic—an eruption of fire, fuel, and metal that sent shockwaves through the ship. The flight deck erupted in a violent inferno, the explosion tearing outwards bending the flightdeck back onto itself and sending shards of burning metal debris and mangled aircraft tumbling into the sea. The second missile tore into the Lincoln’s hull, striking just above the waterline, flooding the lower decks. The American carrier was sinking, listing dangerously to one side, a twisted wreck that was already beyond repair.

  The Carl Vinson was also hit, but the damage was mostly superficial. She could still float, though aircraft recovery would be impossible for the time being, but she remained afloat. The Abraham Lincoln, however, was now a burning husk fire had spread quickly through the hull. A fair few of their escorts having expanded their supply of missiles in minutes in the vain hope of protecting the carriers, not fairing much better, were little more than wrecks themselves.

  The unrelenting chaos was followed by the Chinese air and ship-borne missile strike launched from long range bombers from the mainland, the submarines and the opposing fleet. Swarms of J-35s, launched coordinated attacks with their own YJ-12 supersonic anti-ship missiles, targeting the remaining American destroyers and frigates. A large number of these were missiles and aircraft, were intercepted by the American fighters now in range.

  The Aegis systems on the American ships worked desperately to intercept the rest of the incoming threats, but what little remained of their Vertical Launch Systems were quickly expended, and several missiles found their mark. They even opened up with their five inch naval guns and had some success, but not enough.

  The USS Chancellorsville, one of the last Ticonderoga-class cruisers in service, took a direct hit. The explosion split the hull open, and flames engulfed the ship in an instant. Meanwhile, the USS Arleigh Burke, despite her advanced systems, was overwhelmed by the sheer number of incoming missiles. The venerable destroyer fought valiantly, but she too succumbed to the relentless onslaught.

  In the Carl Vinson’s command centre, the frantic activity reached a fever pitch. Officers shouted reports and commands as alarms wailed. “Admiral, the Lincoln is gone,” Commander Samantha Torres reported, her voice tight with emotion. “We’ve lost five destroyers, and we’re down to 40% of our air wing. They’re hitting us from every angle.”

  The Admiral’s jaw clenched, his eyes steely with resolve. “Launch a full counterstrike. Everything we have left, hit them hard.”

  Desperation set in. F-35Cs danced a deadly ballet with Chinese J-35s, while F/A-18s, supported by EA-18G Growlers launched a final counteroffensive. Air-to-surface missiles streaked toward the Chinese carriers, followed by Tomahawk cruise missiles and Naval Strike Missiles, from the remaining escorts targeting the heart of the enemy’s force.

  The Jiangxi, China’s second carrier, took three hits and suffered heavy damage, so did many of their escorts. Several missiles finding their targets, igniting massive fires, twisting steel and sending Chinese warships to the cold depths below. Yet, despite the chaos, the Guangxi remained operational. The Chinese air wing continued to harass the remnants of the American fleet, its air superiority cementing their victory.

  The Chinese submarines, emboldened by their initial successes, having dealt the killing blow to the two Virginia-class escort submarines, launched their final salvo of torpedoes, sinking the USS John Finn, another Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. The Americans fought back, managing to sink one Type 093 submarine with a lucky hit, but it was too little, too late.

  By dusk, the South China Sea had become a graveyard of burning wreckage. The USS Carl Vinson, heavily damaged but still afloat, limped away under the cover of darkness. Its surviving escorts formed a protective ring, shielding her from further attack. The Chinese fleet, though battered, had the upper hand. One of their carriers was still operational, the other would need months in dry dock and their remaining destroyers probed aggressively, circling the American ships like sharks smelling blood.

  In Washington, the President addressed the nation, her voice resolute: “Today, we have faced a challenge the likes of which we have not seen in generations. This is not over. We will respond, and we will prevail.”

  Meanwhile, Vice Admiral Wang Zhen stood on the bridge of the Guangxi, feeling awfully proud of himself, his face grim but victorious. “Let this be a message,” he said quietly to his officers. “The seas belong to those who are bold enough to claim them.”

  ***

  The southern group had fared considerably better. They too were facing a barrage of incoming missiles. However, the HMNZS Achilles had surged forward performing her sole purpose with ruthless efficiency, her sleek yet formidable 13,500-ton bulk cutting through the waves with an almost predatory grace. The cruiser’s hull glowed with the reflections of the sun dappled seas around her, the angular design and layered armour of her superstructure, giving her the appearance of some mythic beast leading its kin into the storm. She was the shepherd, and as she led the way into the valley of death, she feared no evil!

  As the incoming threats approached, with a loud clang her VLS silos slammed open—followed quickly by a deep, resonant thrum, and a blinding display of white missiles screaming skyward on pillars of fire and fury. Within moments, superheated beams of crimson light slashed through the smoke-choked sky they left behind, burning trails through the heavens as her multiple Aegis driven Kiwi made HELIOS-TWK Mk1 500Kw multi-role laser defence systems engaged incoming threats with unrelenting accuracy.

  For several breathless minutes, the Achilles became a storm unto herself, shrouded in the billowing exhaust of her missile launches. The dense smoky veil created by the salvos only added to the hellish display—shafts of burning light, reflecting off the superstructure, making it glow red in the dim gloom, pierced through the thick haze like the wrath of an avenging god. Whips of orange fire from her CIWS mount added to the carnage. Enemy missiles that had the audacity to approach were torn apart mid-air, their shattered remains raining down like hellfire. Not one missile, penetrated her blistering gauntlet of interceptors, laser batteries, and CIWS defences.

  This was the moment she had been built for. On the bridge, her captain stood tall, his Kahu Kiwi draped across his shoulders—a ceremonial cloak and a long held Royal New Zealand Navy symbol of tradition and mana in a battle waged with cutting-edge fury. He spared a silent nod of thanks to the South Korean engineers who had forged this war machine, this leviathan of the waves.

  Around her, the other Kiwi Navy ships and their equally armed Royal Australian Navy allies moved with long practiced, coordinated precision. The Aegis equipped destroyers and frigates dancing between the shadows of fire and death, shielding the Achilles and the two flat tops with a carefully orchestrated ballet of their own HELIOS-TWK Mk1 laser systems, VLS missiles and CIWS countermeasures. But even with all their devastating lethality, they lacked the pure, surgical wrathful god like devastation of the Achilles herself.

  Below the surface, alerted early, the Virginia-class submarine HMAS Vampire and the Mako-class diesel/electric submarine HMNZS Mako, were dancing a duel of death of their own. They were faced off against a further two Chinese Type 093’s, but they were wearing them down, aided greatly by a multitude of ASW Seahawks from the surrounding fleet.

  On the command bridge of the HMNZS Tangaroa, Vice Admiral Malachi Mason stood amid a sea of flashing alerts and chaos. The digital combat plot before him painted a grim picture—red icons, enemy contacts, swarming towards their position like a tide of death, their own formidable Aegis driven layered defences of missiles, HELIOS-TWK Mk1 lasers and CIWS point defence missiles and guns added to the carnage all around them.

  He had just received an update from Rear Admiral Raines. The Americans further north were also engaged, their carriers under siege, their defences overwhelmed. His friend Sangstrom was dead, and the Lincoln was gone. The enemy was not just attacking—it was attempting to annihilate them outright.

  Mason’s jaw clenched, fury burning behind his steely grey green eyes. He felt the weight of history pressing down upon him, the moment balanced on the knife’s edge of destiny. His voice cracked through the bridge, raw and filled with iron resolve.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he spat, slamming his fist against the edge of a console, before regaining his composure and picking up the direct line to air traffic control. “Wings, this is Mason, Launch all aircraft! Get every bird in the sky and launch all tankers, I want every helo on the deck and ready for search and rescue—NOW!”

  The order ignited the ship into action, flight crews scrambling, ready room doors slamming open, and deck crews waving fighters into position. Jet engine turbine blades whipped the air into a hurricane frenzy as the fighters prepped for immediate launch, their engines screaming against the chaos.

  He didn’t wait for a response, fully confident that his orders would be carried out to the letter, before turning to the bridge crew. “Bring us to flank speed! Helm, hard to port—Navigator, plot an intercept course for the northern group! We need to save as many of them as possible!” Mason barked. The Tangaroa, surged forward, her powerful gas turbines roaring to life as she pushed to her maximum speed.

  He put the phone back to his ear. “Wings, tell the CAG I want our planes to fly combat air patrol over what’s left of the Americans, they’re bound to be out of ammo and feeling pretty vulnerable right about now, and make sure we have a ready deck to recover the American fighters, it’s gonna be a tight squeeze but make it happen.”

  He barely heard the affirmative reply as he slammed the phone down. He instantly regretted the action, it was rude, and he knew it, but he would apologise later, if they lived through the next few days. He simply did not have the time right now.

  Turning sharply to a nearby comms officer, Mason snapped, “Alert Admiral Garrett on Enterprise! Let her know our intent. She’s welcome to join us, but we are NOT waiting!”

  The comms officer nodded sharply, already transmitting the message. There was no time for hesitation—the battlefield was shifting, the enemy pressing, and Mason knew that every second lost meant another grave filled, another soul consumed by the sea.

  Beyond the bridge’s armored glass, the carnage of war stretched from horizon to horizon, a symphony of destruction echoing across the sea. Fire. Smoke. The roar of engines and the wailing of alarms. And through it all, Achilles led the charge, her weapons blazing, her steel unyielding.

  The Cold War had just gone hot—and New Zealand was in the fight.