Busan Harbour, South Korea, Convoy Bravo67 – March 12th, 2040, 21:00 Local

  The dark expanse of Busan Harbour sprawled out before them, the skyline of the city barely visible against the inky night, lit by the faint glimmers of military lights and the ever-present glow of flares in the distance. The scent of salt and diesel hung thick in the air, the oppressive weight of a tense, war-torn world sinking into the bones of every sailor and soldier on the docks. Convoy Bravo67 had finally arrived, after a journey fraught with peril and a relentless pace set by the ever-looming shadow of Chinese aggression in the waters.

  For two days, they had sailed under the vigilant watch of allied air cover—superior in number, but still ever wary. Japanese P-8s protected by F-15J’s had circled overhead like guardians, their sleek forms cutting through the night sky, while South Korean naval vessels patrolled the surrounding seas, their radar arrays scanning the horizon, while their sonars relentlessly pinged the waters for any hint of hostile movement. The air was thick with the hum of military engines and the distant rumble of waves crashing against the hulls of ships. The journey, a gruelling month-long trek through hostile waters, had not been easy, but they had made it.

  Collins stood on the bridgewing of the Hawkes Bay, his eyes scanning the horizon as he steeled himself against the ache in his bones. He would have liked to say the trip had been without incident, but reality was far harsher. Between them, the escorts of Convoy Bravo67 had engaged ten Chinese submarines. The remains of seven of those were now silent tombs beneath the waves. The ocean had claimed them, but it had not come without a cost.

  A shadow flickered at the edge of the docks, and Collins glanced to where the Kaka limped toward the harbour, the proud warship that had sailed across treacherous waters, now towed unceremoniously backward into the harbour. The Kaka had been the one to take the hardest blow—an expertly aimed torpedo had torn into her bow, leaving the once sleek and formidable corvette with a jagged wound. Her frame was crumpled, twisted beneath the weight of the damage. If she was to be repaired, it would take months in a dry dock, and even then, Collins wasn't sure she would ever return to her former glory. The Awatere had taken up the role of the patient rescuer, towing the wrecked Kaka into port with care, her engines humming steadily against the burden.

  The Japanese had been quick to offer assistance, their reputation for precision and speed in repairs well-known. It was accepted without hesitation. They would fix her—just as soon as they could secure the ship in a dry dock. The crew would stay by their vessel, steadfast and determined to see it through, despite the bitter taste of the loss. There was no time to mourn; there was only work to be done.

  But despite the damage to Kaka, the convoy had seen success. No losses had been taken from the cargo ships or the tankers. The critical fuel stores, medical supplies, ammunition, and a full cache of munitions—missiles, bombs, tanks—were all being offloaded with military precision. The buzz of activity on the docks was almost frenetic as soldiers, sailors, and dock workers scrambled to get the vital supplies to their destinations. Collins knew the importance of these goods. This wasn’t just another delivery. These convoys were what would keep the fight alive.

  Another couple of convoys like Bravo67 could truly change the tide of the conflict. The supplies they carried could arm a nation, give hope to those on the front lines, and bring them one step closer to turning the wheel of war in their favour.

  Collins glanced back at the Awatere, the quiet replenishment ship going about her task as if they did it every day. She had brought the Kaka in, brought them to safety, if only for a short while. He was proud of his flotilla. The struggle would continue, but for tonight, they had reached the harbour.

  They would be leaving again very shortly, and they would be one ship down, but for now, Busan Harbour was a brief moment of respite in a storm that showed no signs of abating. Collins allowed himself a rare breath of relief as he watched the unloading begin—hoping that maybe, just maybe, this was a step toward victory.

  ***

  London, Private Meeting Room – March 12th, 2040, 15:00 Local

  The large meeting room at Number Ten Downing Street was steeped in history—portraits of long-dead statesmen gazing down from gilded frames on every available patch of wall. Yet the conversation unfolding beneath the chandelier’s soft glow belonged to a different era. The Pacific offered no luxury of ceremony, no room for politeness or statesmanship — out there, the stakes were measured in shipping lanes, supply chains, and the very real threat of isolation and annihilation. The pencil-thin line between deterrence and war had been crossed. The Pacific had come for help.

  Yet, the gravity of the meeting held an undeniable weight. In the centre of the room, a polished wood table gleamed beneath the chandelier’s soft light. The British Prime Minister Richard Winslow sat at the head, flanked by Australian Prime Minister John Mitchell and Canadian Prime Minister Thomas Bouchard. New Zealand Prime Minister Miriama Kahu rounded out the circle. Their conversation that day had begun like any other—strategies, trade, deployments. The mutual interests of the CANZUK nations were being discussed with careful detail. But beneath the surface, something more pressing hung in the air.

  Kahu, her posture composed, had been explaining the next phase of the Pacific deployments—how critical it was to maintain pressure in the region and to secure further resources. The New Zealanders and the Australians were carrying an almighty burden, and they were here to request a bigger commitment from their Atlantic partners. Mitchell nodded in agreement, while Bouchard, ever the strategist, seemed pensive, hands folded in front of him. His gaze occasionally flickered towards Kahu, weighing her words.

  “We’re all agreed that the Pacific needs continued stabilization,” Kahu said, her voice steady, though with an edge of urgency. “The recent airlift was a success, but Singapore’s resilience will only last as long as we continue our support. The need for further deployments of—”

  Bouchard shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tapping together in thought — the small tell of a man already calculating logistics and political capital behind his calm exterior. Mitchell’s eyes flicked towards Kahu, offering a small nod of agreement — but no words. Typical Australian. He’d seen the value in New Zealand’s efforts, even if he wasn’t one to overplay it.

  Winslow’s gaze stayed steady, but there was a faint narrowing of the eyes — not disinterest, but quiet calculation — taking the measure of the room before speaking.

  Before she could finish, the door to the room swung open with a soft creak. Heads turned. An official-looking messenger entered, offering a brief, respectful bow.

  “You are summoned, by His Majesty the King!” he said, his tone unmistakably urgent. “A car is waiting for you outside.”

  Without further explanation the messenger turned and walked back the way he had come. The Prime Ministers exchanged brief, bemused yet questioning glances, then followed the messenger down the hall and outside to the waiting car. Within moments, they were whisked away through the winding streets of London. They soon passed through the gates, before being guided through the equally maze-like corridors of Buckingham Palace, finally reaching a private study.

  There, they were met by the King—his uniform impeccable, perhaps chosen to imply the gravitas of the moment, his posture firm and dignified. With him, his young son stood, dressed with equal precision, his wide eyes peeking out from behind his father's leg.

  “Your Majesties,” Winslow greeted, his voice laced with formal courtesy as he bowed deeply.

  “Prime Ministers,” the King spoke with a voice of authority that was neither distant nor too familiar. It carried the weight of history, tempered by his warmth. Having long abandoned the stiffness of his youth, he now emanated the confidence of a leader who had grown into his role.

  When it came to her turn, she curtsied as was expected of her, but Kahu met his gaze. Though her calm remained unbroken, a flicker of emotion stirred within her—this was the first time they had met in person. “Your Majesty,” she nodded respectfully, her tone both warm and professional.

  The Australians are well known for their fierce independent outlook on life, consequently Mitchell’s bow was brief, almost forced, but there was no mistaking the awe and wonder he felt in the moment.

  Bouchard, like Winslow was a career diplomat and had been in front of the monarchy many times before, the formal bow he offered was well practiced.

  “I trust I’m not interrupting?” The King’s eyes briefly scanned each leader.

  “Not at all, Your Majesty,” Winslow replied smoothly. It was a lie and they all knew it, likely even the King, but the game had to played. “We were just reviewing the Pacific situation.”

  The King glanced again at each leader before speaking directly to the room. “Ah yes, I’ve been kept up to date on the remarkable work being done. The Singapore airlift in particular—an operation not for the faint-hearted. The efforts of the carrier group, daring and dangerous, but a necessity. I flew under Sir Andrew’s command once, did you know that?”

  The assembled Prime Ministers shook their heads politely, and the King continued. “I must commend all of you for your swift action in aiding the Singaporean people. The cooperation between our nations has been nothing short of inspiring. Hasn’t it young man?”

  “yes Daddy.” The young Prince replied.

  “When he heard you were coming, he insisted on meeting you, I hope you don’t mind?” The King Stated, looking lovingly at his son.

  “Of course not your Majesty.” Kahu replied, taking the initiative and going down on one knee, putting out her hand.

  The Prince looked at his father and the king nodded. The young man walked over and shook Miriama ‘s hand, they smiled at each other. The significance of the moment was not lost on Miriama Kahu. A kiwi, with strong Māori heritage in this room, with these men, treated as an equal.

  “Thank you, Prime Minister Kahu.” He said, the timbre of his young voice soft, but regal. She could feel the earnestness and warmth of the young man.

  “You are quite welcome your Highness.” She smiled back, giving him a wink.

  “That’s pretty,” the Prince stated, indicating the Taonga she wore around her neck, It was an intricate koru pattern carved from greenstone. “What does it mean.”

  “Thank you, your highness, this is a Taonga, a sacred symbol of my people.” She replied and reached behind her neck to undo the knot. She looked at the King, who nodded, perhaps remembering his own buzzy bee, he was far too young at the time to remember receiving it, but the brightly coloured wooden toy was still a prized possession. With his permission, Miriama then placed the leather cord around the boys neck and pushed the hardened leather stopper through the loop, securing it in place. When she pulled away, the boy looked down at it, took it in his small hand and studied it for a moment, before meeting her eyes again and smiled. He thanked her softly and she whispered, “Now my gods will know your worth and always protect you.”

  Emboldened, the young Prince went and stood in front of each of each of the Prime Ministers in turn.

  Mitchell’s smirk flickered, a rare flash of warmth on his otherwise stoic face as he watched the young Prince approach and took the boy’s hand. He too got a sense of the boy’s character in that brief exchange. Though not a monarchist himself, in that one moment he could understand why some of his people were.

  When it was his turn Bouchard, ever the diplomat, lowered himself slightly — a subtle mark of respect without making too much of the gesture. When the boy took the man’s hand and thanked him for his efforts, you could see the pride in the diplomat’s face

  Finally the young Prince arrived at the British Prime Minister, and he almost seemed to hesitate, as if there was something hidden there, almost like he was just fulfilling his duty. Winslow’s expression softened just slightly, but it was calculated — noticing the optics of the moment, he manoeuvred himself just right for the inhouse photographer, perhaps already picturing the headlines.

  Miriama glanced over at the King and was both amused and warmed to see how proud he was of the young Prince in that moment. It was easy to forget with all the headlines and media that they were also just people, with people’s feelings.

  With a newfound appreciation for the man, Kahu felt the weight of the King’s earlier words, knowing they carried the resonance of the monarchy—both praise and the subtle expectation of even greater things. There was no doubting the King's understanding of the situation. By then, the young Prince had rejoined his father, and the King’s next words only added to the sense of responsibility that weighed upon her shoulders.

  “There are those,” the King continued, “who are sceptical of such efforts—of the distance, the cost, the logistics. Some would even question why Britain should concern itself with the Pacific at all. But we know better….”

  As the King’s words filled the room, Miriama couldn’t help but notice the pointed way the King seemed to direct them straight at Winslow.

  Bouchard’s brow furrowed slightly in thought. Even as the King praised their efforts, his mind was already working three steps ahead — calculating what this newfound royal backing might mean for future deployments.

  Mitchell listened with arms crossed — the kind of posture that could either be read as casual or defensive. But beneath the stoicism, his fingers tapped lightly against his bicep — a quiet tell of pride hidden beneath the Australian bluntness. He had also caught the way the King seemed to be speaking directly to Winslow and met Kahu’s glance with a quizzical raise of the eyebrow.

  Winslow, meanwhile, kept his gaze fixed firmly on the King — although he could feel the pointed way he was being singled out, his face remained unreadable, but his mind was churning through the political implications. The weight of the monarchy still held power in Britain — far more than he would ever admit out loud. The King was right, he had been stalling, trying to play the game in parliament. He wanted to send more troops, more aid, but he had to balance the political implications back home. The budget still wasn’t where it should be, and the ‘Somebody else’s war’ crowd had strong support in the halls of power. However, with the backing of the King, he felt like he now had the mandate to do what they had set out to do.

  The King continued. “…History binds us together in ways that can never be truly understood, or appreciated—not out of convenience, but out of shared duty, of shared loyalty. The defence of one is the defence of all. But the future is something we must build — not out of nostalgia, but out of shared purpose. What you have done together—what we’ve all done—is more than just a mission. It’s a demonstration of shared responsibility, of trust. That is something history will remember. It gives me hope for a brighter future, one of unity and peace, even if we have to take that peace. I was a soldier once too, I understand the cost, the burden, and the heavy responsibility we ask of our forces. I am truly grateful to all of them, I trust you will not let this effort waver — not now, not when they need us most.”

  Bouchard gave a small smile, a diplomatic response to the praise, though there was no hiding the flicker of pride in his eyes. Mitchell nodded, lips thin, clearly pleased but always calculating. Kahu simply nodded, her gaze steady, though her pulse quickened at the weight of the moment. This was no mere formality. This was a recognition of their collective resolve.

  The King’s gaze shifted slightly, his expression serious. “You’ve all earned my congratulations—and my admiration. But we mustn’t lose sight of the next steps. There is still much to be done.”

  A respectful silence followed as the room absorbed the weight of the words.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” the King continued, his tone shifting to one of royal finality as he looked down at the young man in front of him, who was staring back up at his father. “I must return to other matters of state. But know this—my support, and that of the Crown, is unwavering.”

  As the King turned to leave, ushering the young Prince in front of him, the room quieted once more. At the door the young man turned slightly to look back into the room, just before the door shut, his eyes met Miriama’s, and he gave her a small smile and a wave. She had just enough time to smile back before the door clicked softly behind them, and the air shifted — that subtle crackle of history in the making.

  Mitchell exhaled first, a low breath through his nose — breaking the silence without breaking the moment.

  “Well, that was... unexpected,” he said with a small chuckle, breaking the tension.

  Kahu raised an eyebrow, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “The King’s words carry weight,” she said, her tone light yet firm. “But I think it’s a good thing. It shows the depth of our alliance. It shows what we’re building—and what we’re fighting for.”

  Mitchell leaned back against an armchair, arms still crossed, but there was no denying the flicker of pride behind his half-smirk.

  Bouchard gave a small smile, his mind already turning back to logistics. “It certainly underscores the importance of what we’ve accomplished so far. But now... the real work begins.”

  Winslow cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. His voice was steady again — but there was a new weight behind it. “Indeed. Let’s return to the matter at hand.”

  Back in the warmth of Number Ten, the conversation resumed, and the air of purpose filled the room again. The leaders were no longer just strategizing; they were now working with the full understanding that the eyes of the monarchy—and the world—were watching. The leaders returned to their seats, the fire of renewed purpose flickering behind tired eyes. Whatever doubts lingered before had been banished. The road ahead would be long, and hard. But the message had been clear—what they were building would not go unnoticed. History had already begun to turn beneath their feet.

  ***

  The South China Sea, March 13th, 2040

  The inky expanse of the South China Sea stretched endlessly beneath the submarines, an ocean seemingly devoid of life, but brimming with the tension of impending conflict. For the crews of the six Royal New Zealand Navy submarines—HMNZS Hamana, HMNZS Taniwha, HMNZS Wheke, HMNZS Kahawai, HMNZS Koura and HMNZS Makara —this vast, turbulent sea was the stage for a mission they could not afford to fail.

  The submarines, sleek and silent hunters, had been pulled off their previous taskings, and redirected into the heart of the storm. Intelligence had warned of a large build-up of Chinese amphibious ships and landing helicopter docks in Hainan harbour, along with considerable escort support. The bulk of Southeast Asia was already under the thrall of the People’s Liberation Army, and with Singapore well and truly under siege, there really was only two choices left, the Philippines or Indonesia. Regardless of where they were headed, they would be relying heavily on airpower from bases on the multitude of tiny islands, both natural and manmade dotted throughout the South China Sea, which the Chinese had been steadily reinforcing for years.

  The orders issued to Lieutenant Commander Matsuda and his counterparts were unambiguous, they were to sail within striking distance of the islands and launch their full payload of cruise missiles at Chinese military installations. The Mako-class submarines of the Royal New Zealand Navy carried twelve BGM-109 Tomahawk missiles in vertical launch tubes just behind the sail, for purposes just like this. The submarines’ role was to strike deep into the enemy’s heart—before they could strike back.

  HMNZS Hamana, the lead boat, slid through the water with the eerie calm of a predator stalking its prey Hamana was a type of shark, in the Māori language, a very fitting name for the submarine. The Mako-class had earned its reputation as one of the most agile and deadly boats in the fleet, the Hamana, probably the pick of the bunch, having already chased down and dealt with a Type-094, leading to its capture and a Type-093 leading to its destruction.

  Matsuda, sat in the control room, his sharp eyes fixed on the sonar screen. A first generation kiwi, Matsuda had grown up in New Zealand and was a passionate warrior of the cause. Tonight, his boat was a shadow beneath the waves, her crew steady and focused, moving toward the Spratly’s with a single purpose.

  Alongside her, her five sisters glided in perfect formation, their whisper quiet Permasyn powered electric motors and sound absorbing hull coatings, giving them a level of stealth capability far outmatching their near peer adversaries, ensuring they went unnoticed by the Chinese sonar and surveillance systems that had dominated these waters for more than a generation. The submarines’ pressure hulls hummed softly as their advanced sonar systems scanned the depths for any signs of trouble, but the eerie quiet of the sea gave them little to detect.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  As the mission progressed, the submarines navigated the complex maze of underwater terrain, carefully maintaining their distance from one another to avoid detection by China’s formidable anti-submarine forces. Their crew members worked in a tense, silent choreography, preparing their missiles for launch, each member acutely aware of the significance of their mission. They were more than just warriors. They were the ghosts in the depths, the ones who would strike when least expected and disappear without a trace.

  Matsuda aboard Hamana, the pack leader, watched the glowing lines of his digital plot as the islands came into range. Fiery Cross, Mischief, Subi, Scarborough, Woody—names that had loomed over the Pacific for decades. Each one a dagger thrust into the heart of the free seas. Tonight, they would burn.

  “P-WO confirm target package alpha has been loaded into guidance and firing solutions are set!” Matsuda ordered.

  Target package alpha was the systemic destruction of radar and surface to air missile installations, hardened bunkers and runways.

  "Target package Alpha has been loaded and final firing solutions confirmed across the board Boss, we are ready to fire!" reported Sub.Lt Victor Müller, his voice steady despite the weight of what they were about to unleash.

  Matsuda looked at his watch and confirmed the time against the red digital readout mounted on the wall of the control room. It was time, he assumed the other skippers were doing the same things.

  “Bring us up to launch depth EX-O, let’s get this over with.”

  “Launch depth, aye Boss!” Murphy replied crisply then turned to issue instructions to the helmsman.

  “Nav, is our exit course plotted?” Matsuda quired of the Navigator.

  “Yes Boss, fully plotted.” Lieutenant Ananya Gupta replied. “We’re leading the southern group, Wheke is leading the western group.”

  The idea was to split the submarines into two groups of three, that way the Chinese, if they discovered them at all, would have to either split their focus, or focus on one group. Either way, the plan called for separation so that at least some of the boats would survive.

  “We are at launch depth Boss.” Murphy stated, bringing them back to the task at hand.

  Matsuda's mouth was dry. Six boats, seventy-two Tomahawks. Once they lit the match, there was no going back. He checked his wall mounted readout again and counted down the seconds to the prearranged launch time. When the seconds clicked down to a double zero.

  "Final release authority confirmed. Initiate launch—mark!" Matsuda stated matter-of-factly, as if he was ordering a burger and a half scoop of chips at the local takeaway.

  On the stroke of 02:30, just below the surface of the South China Sea, beneath the indifferent gaze of the stars, the first hatches folded open, then a rush of compressed air, as one by one, the Tomahawks were expelled from their tubes. Within seconds the ocean exhaled as the missiles burst free—long, sleek shadows slipping into the night sky on pillars of pale flame. They rose and scattered, each finding its own pre-programmed course. Within seconds, the South China Sea was alive with streaking fire.

  Matsuda watched the radar feed as the missiles fanned out across the horizon. Every sub's launch was complete, it had taken less than ten minutes. The pack did not stick around to admire their handy work, immediately peeling away before the missile hatches were even fully closed and diving into the depths, their bellies empty, the black water closing around them once more.

  "Missiles in flight. Time to impact... twelve minutes." Müller confirmed.

  On the other side of the sea, Chinese radar operators woke up to alarms shrieking in the night. Automated systems picking up the tracks of the inbound wave. HQ-9 SAM batteries began spooling up, but there were too many missiles. Too fast. Too low. They fired anyway, countless surface to air missiles streaking into the sky. Some found their marks, destroying the incoming Tomahawks, but nowhere near enough. The first detonations lit the horizon a full minute ahead of schedule.

  Fiery Cross was the first to die—its radar towers erupting in gouts of flame, the 3,000-meter runway cratered and broken. At Subi Reef, fuel dumps blossomed into angry orange plumes. Mischief Reef's hardened bunkers took three hits in thirty seconds, sending munitions cooking off into the sky adding to the cacophony of the destruction.

  Scarborough Shoal—long a thorn in the side of the Philippines—ceased to exist in a cascade of white fire.

  Across the board, the defences struggled to respond. SAM batteries tried to engage, but the saturation overwhelmed them. Only a handful of Tomahawks fell to interceptors. The rest struck home.

  By the time the bombers arrived—USAF B-1B Lancers from Diego Garcia, RAAF B-1Bs from Tindal— the same ones that had devastated the Chinese forces around Singapore, the South China Sea's iron dome lay shattered before them, the skies blissfully clear of interceptors. What remained of China's island based air defences vanished beneath the carpet bombing runs of the heavies.

  But the price of the strike was not yet paid.

  In the dark below, the Chinese Navy was stirring. Type 052D destroyers and Type 056 corvettes began fanning out from Hainan Island. Sonar buoys splashed into the sea from helicopters prowling overhead, their dipping sonar pulses sweeping for the wolves.

  Matsuda's group was already turning south, running deep. Silent. But the hunter had become the hunted.

  By dawn, the Chinese would know who had struck them.

  By dusk, they would be chasing the Kiwis across the South China Sea.

  The war had changed overnight. New Zealand had drawn blood.

  ***

  South China Sea – 02:45 Local Time

  Fifteen minutes after launch, the Taniwha Pack was running for their lives.

  Below the waves, the three Mako-class subs led by Hamana ghosted southward around Palawan into the Sulu Sea, while the other three headed southwest into the Riau Archipelago, their once-deadly bellies now empty. Their vertical launch systems were cold, the Tomahawk tubes useless, for now. Now, they had nothing left but their torpedoes, countermeasures, and raw nerve.

  Lieutenant Commander Matsuda sat motionless in Hamana’s control room, eyes locked on the sonar display. The whole boat was silent, save for the hum of the Permasyn powered electric motors and the occasional muttered report from his crew.

  Then, the sound they had all been dreading.

  Piiiing.

  A long, drawn-out sonar pulse rolled through the depths—active search.

  “Surface contact, bearing 354, twin screw, not big, running fast and pinging hard with active. Likely a corvette. They’re sweeping for us,” called Sub-Lieutenant Müller.

  Matsuda’s jaw clenched. He already knew what was happening above. The Chinese Navy had somehow been waiting for them, but how the fucking hell had they gotten here so fast? Had they missed something?

  PLAN Type 052D destroyers and Type 056 corvettes were fanning out, saturating the ocean with dipping sonar buoys. Z-20F anti-submarine helicopters prowled above, their blades slicing the humid air, hunting the ghosts that had just shattered China's iron grip on the South China Sea.

  More pings. Closer this time.

  “They’re guessing,” whispered Murphy. “They don’t know exactly where we are yet.”

  Yet.

  ***

  02:51 Local Time – HMNZS Wheke

  Aboard HMNZS Wheke, Lieutenant Commander Clara Mitchell studied her own sonar display, listening to the unfolding chaos. The westernmost trio of subs—Wheke, Kahawai, and Koura—had been forced to adjust course as a Chinese corvette group cut across their planned escape route.

  Mitchell exhaled sharply. "How many contacts?"

  "At least three corvettes moving in a spread search pattern. They're dropping buoys, but…" Sub. Lt. Ariana Kaur, her principal warfare officer trailed off, tilting her head.

  "But what?" Mitchell demanded.

  "Boss, splashes and high speed screws, two torpedoes launched. I think they're guessing our position."

  Mitchell didn’t hesitate. "P-WO launch decoys. Now!"

  Seconds later, Wheke ejected two Mk. 4 CANTO countermeasures—small, torpedo-sized devices that exploded into a chaotic cacophony of false sonar returns, simulating an entire squadron of subs scattering in different directions.

  Above them, the Type 056 corvette Longxi got a return.

  Contact! The Chinese commander didn’t wait to verify. He gave the order. Two more Yu-8 torpedoes splashed into the sea.

  ***

  02:54 Local Time – HMNZS Kahawai

  “Skipper, two more high speed screws in the water. Running hot, straight, and normal that makes four.”

  Lieutenant Commander John Chamberlain, skipper of Kahawai, didn’t flinch. “Bearing P-WO, who's the target?”

  “Can’t say yet, boss.” Sub.Lt Ryuji Tanaka replied. “They might be biting on Wheke’s decoys.”

  Might be. Chamberlain's mind raced. They had two options, so far, they weren’t being targeted, they could launch decoys and run, or they could go silent and hunt. Wheke had given them the opportunity to put practice into reality. Chamberlain known for his pragmatism, rather than aggressiveness, decided to take that opportunity and go silent.

  “Helm, rig for ultra-quiet, no unnecessary movement. Sonar, keep those fish updated.”

  Onboard, the crew barely breathed. The Yu-8s streaked through the depths, homing in on the cacophony left by the CANTO decoys. Seconds stretched into eternity.

  Then—

  Multiple explosions in quick succession rippled through the depths. The torpedoes had detonated—but against nothing. Wheke’s decoys had done their job.

  A muted cheer rippled through Kahawai’s control room, but Chamberlain raised his hand to quieten them. “They’ll speed right over us in a second. Keep quiet. Helm bring us around on an intercept course for the lead corvette. P-WO flood all tubes and plot a solution on all three, I want a full spread two each.”

  The seconds ticked by slowly, the Kahawai nothing but a silent black hole in the water. Wheke’s decoys had worked, but they had heard her running and were now chasing her down, which was the point. Chamberlain would only have one shot at this, he needed to time it perfectly.

  Sure enough, more sonar buoys hit the water ahead, another off to the side, from a helicopter circling above desperately trying to confirm Wheke’s track, she was running hard now, her full 25knots making all the noise she possibly could. But Kahawai had her covered, they had practiced this maneuver many times before.

  The sheepdogs above had fallen right into Chamberlain’s trap. So convinced of their own superiority they had run right over him, and he had slipped right in behind.

  “Solutions plotted Skipper, were ready!” Tanaka confirmed.

  “Weapons released! Fire tubes one through six and reload!”

  Only seconds apart from each other, six Mk54 Mod 7 CBASS torpedoes left their tubes and went active almost immediately, streaking towards the corvettes ahead. The Chinese ships were racing after the Wheke, too fast to hear the incoming torpedoes from behind, even if they did have their towed arrays deployed. Wheke had given them the perfect stern shot position.

  “First torpedo impact in fifteen seconds… fourteen… thirteen…” Tanaka counted down.

  The first torpedo struck the lead corvette in the rudder assembly fouling it immediately and twisting it to port, forcing the ship to heel rapidly in that direction, right into the path of her sister. The next five torpedoes struck their targets within seconds of each other, minutes later three corvettes were disabled, two were sinking. That was when two more torpedoes appeared on the sonar, the distinctive whine of Mk54s echoing through Tanaka’s headphones, Koura had joined the fray and the last of the corvettes slipped beneath the waves.

  03:12 Local Time – HMNZS Hamana

  Matsuda listened, feeling the tension twist his gut. The western group was being hounded, but so far, no losses on their side. His southern group—Hamana, Taniwha, and Makara—were running deep, well south of the hot zone.

  But something wasn’t right.

  Sonar techs caught a faint, low-frequency sound signature creeping up astern. A deep, warbling hum beneath the ocean noise. Submarine.

  Matsuda’s stomach turned to ice. The Chinese weren’t just using surface ships.

  "P-WO, confirm classification."

  Müller swallowed. "Boss… target classification confirmed, it’s a Type-093 attack sub."

  Matsuda's pulse spiked. Another Shang-II nuclear-powered hunter-killer. And suddenly, the hunter had become the hunted. Evasive manoeuvres would give them away. Decoys wouldn't work at this range—at least, not against a sub captain who knew what he was doing, and the Chinese didn’t normally hand their best to dumbasses.

  One-on-one, the Mako was quieter... but the Shang had unlimited endurance and a bigger bag of tricks. He leaned in close to the sonar plot, the Type-093 was still outside torpedo range — just.

  Matsuda's eyes narrowed. You're patient, aren't you, Rōken? Think you've got all the time in the world. He keyed the comms circuit.

  "Comms send burst transmission on the EADS, order the group to scatter! Helm, take us deep—500 meters. No more than 10-degree down angle. Rig for silent running."

  It was like a cartoon, Taniwha and Makara broke away — three boats peeling off in separate directions like splinters in the black. The Shang paused. Undecided. As the Hamana sank into the abyss, the Type-093B finally followed, patiently closing the distance.

  Matsuda's lip curled.

  "That's right, Rōken... follow me."

  ***

  The Fall of the Philippines, South China Sea – March 16th to April 12th, 2040

  The allies had hoped that their daring submarine strike and bombing raid would buy them time. A few precious hours to get reinforcements in place, to reposition assets and prepare for the worst. But they were wrong. So very wrong. The invasion of the Philippines unfolded just as the world had feared. Yet, even with the destruction of China’s island bases, the PLA Navy approached with a cautious ferocity. The skies above the South China Sea, once an impenetrable fortress of Chinese air superiority, were now vulnerable—but not for long.

  Without forward-deployed American carriers or a lasting land-based presence from Guam, the Philippine Air Force was crippled. Modern, yes—but small and stretched thin. The promised American infrastructure projects—new bases, stationed forces—never materialized. Budget cuts had done away with them, leaving the Philippines alone to face the overwhelming might of China’s air force.

  The Chinese didn’t need to rely on islands anymore. They adapted quickly. J-20s and J-16s took to the skies in relentless patrols, flying long sorties from bases in Guangdong, Hainan, and even Taiwan, refueling mid-air to maintain an unbroken presence above the Philippines. It didn’t matter to them if the skies were clear for a moment. They could rebuild their power as soon as the Philippines was secured.

  On the sea, the Philippine Navy—outgunned and outmanned—fought with a stubbornness that would be remembered, though futile. Their fleet, a mix of second-hand American and South Korean vessels, stood little chance against the PLA Navy’s might.

  The BRP Jose Rizal, the pride of the Philippine Navy, fired its full salvo of Harpoon missiles into the oncoming Chinese fleet. It was a valiant effort, but within hours, the mighty Rizal was reduced to a burning wreck by the Type-055 Renhai-class cruiser Baotou. The smaller Del Pilar-class patrol boats fared no better. The Chinese warships sailed through the wreckage, unaffected, as though it was nothing more than debris.

  The final transmission from the Philippine flagship, before he ordered the ship to charge the enemy, came through in a crackling whisper:

  “the enemy is all around us. Weapons are empty. God save the Republic!”

  By the time the sun set on the first day of the fighting, the Philippine Navy had been swept from the seas and the landings began with brutal efficiency—wave upon wave of air cushioned landing craft, carrying PLA Marines storming the beaches of Zambales and Batangas under the cover of relentless carrier launched air strikes. Chinese Z-10 attack helicopters launching from Type-076 Yulan-class LHDs buzzed low over the jungles and villages, rockets and cannon fire turning homes and anything else that moved into smouldering wreckage.

  The Philippine Army—though better trained and equipped than ever before thanks to a decade of what the Americans were able to offer in aid—was simply too small to halt the juggernaut. Their solitary Armoured Division—bolstered with a handful of second hand American M1A1 Abrams and South Korean K21 Infantry Fighting Vehicles—fought hard around Clark Air Base and Fort Magsaysay, but against the PLA's endless columns of Type-99A main battle tanks and ZBD-04A infantry fighting vehicles, they were immediately overwhelmed, outmatched in both numbers and firepower.

  In retaliation for the South China Sea, the Chinese made this one hurt, each battle was played out across social media in real time—live streams and drone footage showing burning villages, massed artillery barrages, and columns of desperate refugees. The whole world watched as the Philippines was devoured, kilometre by kilometre.

  Filipino soldiers died with their fingers still squeezing the triggers of their rifles. Entire battalions were annihilated holding ridge lines or delaying crossroads—delaying, not stopping—just buying time for what little civilian population could escape the slaughter, and make no mistake, it was a slaughter.

  It was Bataan all over again—history repeating itself in the most horrific way.

  As the world watched, live feeds from the Philippines spread across social media like wildfire—torn from the desperate hands of soldiers in the thick of the fighting. Watching from offices, bedrooms, or café tables, viewers could see in vivid detail how thick the air was with the scent of burning villages. Watched in real time the artillery blasts and could hear the crackle of gunfire. This so different, yet at the same time, so eerily similar to the scenes which had come out of Ukraine all those years ago. The cameras shook with the erratic movement of soldiers running through smoky fields, carrying the weight of their last stand on their shoulders.

  One soldier’s video, posted from a muddy trench, went viral. His face was smeared with dirt, eyes wide with panic. The camera shook in his hands as he spoke, voice cracking with terror:

  “Why aren’t the Americans here? We’re fighting for our lives out here… alone. No reinforcements, no air support. I can hear them getting closer... Please, someone tell me they’re coming.”

  The screen flickered, and for a moment, the camera panned over the sparse, jungle-clad trench. In the distance, a plume of smoke rose from an explosion. The soldier looked toward it, swallowing hard. His voice trembled.

  “Why aren’t they here? You promised us. Please… we need you.”

  Then, the feed cut to black.

  The next day, the same soldier reappeared. His breath was heavy, his voice barely audible over the static. The camera bounced as he ran, ducking behind a crumbling building, the sounds of battle all around him—distant explosions, rapid gunfire, and the ominous rumble of tanks rolling through the streets.

  “I’m not going to make it... But please—please, America, WHERE ARE YOU?” His voice broke, the words catching in his throat. He ducked behind a pillar, eyes darting left and right, trying to steady his breath. The camera shook violently as another explosion hit nearby.

  “Just... just hold on... just a little longer,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  Suddenly, the feed cut out, leaving only silence.

  Later, another soldier’s live stream made the rounds, each word steeped in desperation. This soldier, his face barely visible in the dim glow of a single lantern, reached up to wipe sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of dirt on his face.

  “I keep asking, ‘Why aren’t you here?’ Every minute that passes, they get closer. Why aren’t you helping us?”

  His voice was shaky, barely holding it together. Gunfire crackled in the background. The soldier moved quickly, taking cover behind a wall as debris fell around him, the air thick with smoke and dust. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, panicked.

  "God… please, I don’t want to die like this."

  The camera shook one final time before going black.

  The world watched in horror. The images, the live feeds, flooded news channels—each post, each video, a testament to the Philippine soldiers' courage and the helplessness of their situation. As the battle raged on, the full extent of the catastrophe became clear.

  The Philippines would fall.

  The decision not to defend the Philippines had been made by choice but by necessity in the corridors of Washington, but had been reinforced in the halls of Wellington, Canberra, London, and Ottawa weeks before the invasion. With the Americans still heavily committed in the middle east, completely routed in the south pacific and fully committed in the north on the Korean peninsula, they simply did not have the troops to send. All told they had roughly a brigade of marines and one and a half carriers in the region. As it was until more forces could be released from other duties, their two carriers were going to have to rely on additional escorts from the RNZN and RAN just to safely go to sea. The American’s once vaunted power was a shadow of it’s former self.

  For the Alliance, the calculus was simple, move their forces into hastily prepared defences in the Philippines and die alongside America’s ally. Or dig into well prepared defences and defend their own homes. Rightly or wrongly, they chose the later and the Philippines burned.

  It had been a cold, pragmatic calculation. Signalling the dying light of the American Hegemon in the Pacific. The Chinese knew the Allies couldn't intervene in time. Theirs was a calculated act of brutality—China's way of sending a message. The Pacific was theirs now.

  This was the first real hit against the CANZUK alliance—and they had to take it.

  The decision would haunt the coalition for the rest of the war. The media painted it as a betrayal—echoing the shame of 1942 when MacArthur had left the islands to their fate. Russian and Chinese state media pushed the narrative hard, framing the West as weak, divided, and cowardly.

  The Philippines would fall and for now they could do little to stop it.

  The final stand came at Angeles City, just south of Clark Air Base—a desperate last line of defence where the remnants of the 1st Armoured Brigade and the surviving elements of the 51st Infantry Division made their last stand.

  The battle raged for three days—Philippine troops fighting from hastily dug trenches and blasted-out buildings, covering the retreat of civilians as long as they could.

  The footage from the last hours would become iconic—the Filipino soldiers in mismatched American and Korean body armour, rifles propped on windowsills, holding back the red tide for as long as their ammunition lasted.

  By dawn on the fourth day, the city was silent. The slaughter of Angeles complete. Every defender lay dead.

  By mid-March, the Philippines was effectively occupied—its government driven into exile, its military shattered. The Chinese flag flew over Manila, Clark Air Base, and Subic Bay.

  The world reeled at the images—burning cities, mass graves, shell-shocked refugees crammed into evacuation barges heading for Indonesia and Australia. The stories of massacres and forced labour camps trickled out through social media and whispered testimony.

  It was the first real bloody nose for the Alliance and the Allies as a whole. It was the second time in just under a century that the Americans had done this, only this time it was played out on the nightly news in every home. Social media and live feeds scrolling across all services like the taunting of ghosts. Peace protests broke out at Chinese embassies in many western countries across the globe, including a large one in front of the steps to Capitol Hill, within hours, the protest broke out into riots, when other protesters arrived with ‘America First’ banners.

  For the Chinese, it was vindication—a chance to parade their victory in front of the whole world. They broadcast endless footage of their troops marching through the streets of Manila, their naval convoys unloading war supplies at Subic Bay, docking their carriers, where America’s had once stood. Russian state media joined the chorus—mocking the West’s weakness, hailing the dawn of a new multipolar order.

  For the Allies, it was a grim wake-up call.

  The South China Sea raid had been a brilliant tactical victory—but it hadn't been enough. The Chinese were still coming, still relentless, still winning.

  Although they could do nothing to stop it, the alliance had let the Philippines bleed and now they would have to live with the shame.

  The narrative that spread across the world painted a grim picture. The media questioned the motives of the allied nations. How could they let this happen again? The Philippines—Bataan, 1942, all over again—this time, the world watched it unfold in real time.

  And for the people of the Philippines, there would be no justice—not this time. Just the echo of their cries: “Why aren’t you here?”

  ***

  HMNZS Hamana – Sulu Sea, March 18th, 03:19 Local Time

  Hamana had gone deep—500 meters, where the water grew colder, the pressure squeezing in on the hull. The Shang had been following her for days — its reactor humming quietly in the dark. Matsuda had lured the Shang in, revealing himself just long enough for the Chinese SSN to get a whiff of him, before going silent again and disappearing. He had successfully lured the Shang away from the other two boats, though it hadn’t been easy.

  On the second day of the pursuit they had tried a fire and faint manoeuvre like the western group had used on the corvettes, but the Shang had gotten a lucky shot off and scored a direct hit to the aft section of the Makara, she had taken damage and was down to a maximum speed of 12knots, she was also noisy, Hamana had forced the issue and the Shang had given chase, that was two days ago.

  Now it was time to spring the trap that Matsuda had set. He ordered the Hamana to come up to just under two hundred metres, just above the thermocline and waited.

  And Waited.

  And Waited.

  “Got him Boss,” Muller stated, “bearing 227 he’s just in front of us, popping in and out of the layer. He’s going slow but I can hear him.”

  Matsuda wanted to be sure, and waited just a little longer, for the next time the Shang appeared.

  "P-WO, Fire decoy. One round. Bearing one-eight-zero."

  The countermeasure launched — not a scatter pattern, but a single, perfect ghost of Hamana's acoustic signature. For the Shang it was too good to be true, and it pounced on the decoy, too late to realise the full extent of its error.

  The instant the Chinese boat accelerated, Hamana's bow tubes snapped open and two Mk54 torpedoes streaked into the black — chasing the Shang's wake like silver knives.

  Matsuda never saw the kill — only felt the muffled shockwave rumble through the hull.

  "Break radio silence," he ordered. "Let’s find out where the other two are and if we can lend assistance.”

  They had come as shadows. They left as ghosts, a little broken, but alive and fixable. By dawn, the South China Sea was silent once more — but the wreckage told its own story. The Spratlys still burned. Several Chinese corvettes lay shattered on the seabed and a hunter-killer sub had joined them in the abyss.

  The Royal New Zealand Navy had drawn serious blood — and slipped away unseen. Far away in Wellington, Commodore Greg Verhoeven, chief of RNZN submarine forces would read the signal with a slow smile. He would let Fitzpatrick pass on the news to the Prime Minister, it was her plan after all.

  The world still hadn't quite figured it out though.

  New Zealand was no one's little brother anymore.

  They were the wolves of the Pacific — and God help anyone who came hunting in their waters.