Rear Admiral Malachi Mason sat in his customary chair on the control bridge of the HMNZS Tangaroa, sipping from the fresh cup of coffee his personal steward had just brought to him. At the helm of the carrier stood her commanding officer, Captain Scott Hutchinson his hand steady on the cold, slick railing in front of him, as the ship cut through the rough seas. On the horizon, a shadow loomed — the Soloman Islands, caught in a power struggle between two giants: China to the north-west and the United States to the north-west. But it wasn’t just about territorial claims anymore. It was about survival.
"Captain, we’ve lost contact with the satellite relay," a voice crackled through his earpiece.
“Again?” Mason queried, that would be the fourth time in just about as many hours. The storm outside was getting a little frisky, bordering on sea state seven but still nowhere to the extreme where it would start to affect their modern sensors and communications. There was something else at play here.
"It would appear so,” Hutchinson replied, his eyes narrowing on the advancing storm. “Maintain course," he ordered the helmsman.
“Hmmm, with the Hawkeyes grounded, our over all picture is a lot less than I would like, and it’s going to be challenging to keep the group together.” Mason Mused, “Navigator any chance of getting around this?”
“Last satellite image had as right in the middle of it Admiral, current radius is about 150 miles, but it should dissipate sometime during the middle watch.” Came the crisp reply of Tangaroa’s navigator Lieutenant Cody Abernathy.
“Unfortunate, but not unexpected. Scott do your best to keep the kids together, and for god’s sake make sure anyone outside is tied on, we don’t need any overboard alarms in this crap! I’m going down to CIC.”
“Very good boss.”
Having left the safety of Devonport behind the previous week, the Tangaroa Strike Group ventured northwest into the restless waters of the Coral Sea. The formation was a formidable, if modest, assembly of modern naval power, each vessel chosen to complement the others. At its heart was HMNZS Tangaroa (R75), the pride of the Royal New Zealand Navy. Modelled on the Queen Elizabeth-class, Tangaroa embodied a significantly bold leap forward for New Zealand’s maritime capabilities, her sleek lines and imposing superstructure symbolizing the nation's commitment to defending the Pacific.
Flanking the carrier was the Achilles-class destroyer HMNZS Waikato (D69), a heavily modified German F125 design tailored for New Zealand's unique operational demands, filling the role of air combat destroyer. Bristling with sensors and weapons, Waikato served as the group's shield, prepared to intercept any airborne or seaborne threats.
Further out, the Kahu-class corvettes HMNZS Kakapo (K202) and HMNZS Kokako (K205) cut through the storm-tossed waters. Compact but deadly, their enlarged MEKO A-100 hulls housed advanced radar and sonar systems, anti-ship missiles, and robust defensive measures. Despite their capabilities, the smaller vessels were struggling with the relentless swell. Malachi, observing their erratic movements through his binoculars, couldn’t help but admire their crews' tenacity. He didn’t envy them, though; riding out a storm on a corvette was no sailor’s wet dream.
Beneath the waves, the Type 212CD submarine HMNZS Mako (S100) stalked silently ahead, oblivious to the surface chaos. Its air-independent propulsion and cutting-edge stealth systems made it the perfect scout, ensuring the strike group stayed one step ahead of potential adversaries.
A few miles astern, HMNZS Aotearoa (A11), the fleet's auxiliary oiler and replenishment ship, lingered. Her mission was simple yet vital: to ensure the group could sustain its mission for as long as necessary. Aotearoa’s crew knew they were a lifeline, vulnerable but indispensable.
The strike group’s strength was completed several days prior with the addition of the Australian HMAS Hobart, another Air Warfare Destroyer, and HMAS Tasman, a state-of-the-art frigate. These Australian vessels brought with them not just firepower but a sense of solidarity. To the west, HMAS Melbourne, Australia's own Queen Elizabeth-class carrier, patrolled the waters between the Timor and Arafura seas with her own ANZAC escort group.
Built to the original CATOBAR design, both Tangaroa and Melbourne were a joint ANZAC venture—bought as a package deal from the British and fitted with F-35C fighters and E-2D Hawkeyes supplied by the Americans. The collaborative effort significantly reduced costs while ensuring interoperability. In peacetime, the two carriers shared operational and maintenance loads, often deploying mixed squadrons as a testament to their integrated doctrine. Together, the combined ANZAC fleets formed a resilient shield, the backbone of their collective naval air power.
Officially, their mission was to safeguard critical trade routes and maintain stability across the Pacific. Unofficially, every move the strike groups made was a calculated message—a display of strength and resolve meant to deter aggression.
Yet, even with the added strength of their Australian allies, the sense of vulnerability was palpable. To the north, beyond the Solomon Islands, lay the shadowy spectres of the Chinese and U.S. fleets—far larger, far deadlier. Their presence was a constant pressure, an ominous reminder that the Coral Sea was not the tranquil expanse it once was.
In the combat information centre of Tangaroa, Rear Admiral Malachi Mason stood over a glowing tactical display, his brow furrowed. He could feel the tension radiating from his officers. Decisions here were not just tactical but strategic, every order weighed against the potential to ignite a much larger conflict.
"We're a long way from home Chief," Mason muttered to his steward, taking the offered steaming coffee mug.
"Aye, sir," the Chief Petty Officer replied grimly. "I’d still rather be here than at home though."
For now, the Tangaroa Strike Group pressed on, its course deliberate, its presence a warning. But the question on everyone’s mind remained unspoken: How long could they hold their ground in a sea full of giants?
***
Several hours later, Mason was still in the command and control centre aboard Tangaroa. The storm had eased just as Abernathy had said it would, slipping back to a state three condition. With the waves calmer, air operations started again immediately, and first off the deck was one of their two E2-D Hawkeyes.
The sleek, modern digital consoles around him hummed with quiet efficiency, as did the crew working them. The AWACs plane above had just reached its patrol orbit and the data link had been established, coupled with their own radar sweeps and tactical readouts a constantly shifting picture of the tension was being painted outside. Tangaroa had multiple overlapping and advanced radars and other sensors. Between the Hawkeye, the SMART-L air search radar and the MF-STAR multifunction surveillance radar, amongst others there was nothing she couldn’t see or track on the surface or in the air for almost five hundred miles in any direction. His hands on his hips, Mason stared intently at the tactical displays, devouring any new information as it came in. The faint glow of the screens reflecting off his furrowed brow and ever so slightly receding hairline.
Tearing through the uneasy quiet, a sudden alarm blared into existence sending the crew scrambling, even with the small respite from the storm, their nerves still wound tight after days of constant drills and heightened alerts. For the second time that morning, the ship went to action stations. Malachi’s voice cut through the muted chaos like a blade.
“Report!” he demanded.
“Admiral, AWACs has got multiple bogeys inbound, bearing 072 at 250 nautical miles. Altitude thirty thousand feet and descending,” called the Principal Warfare Officer, Lieutenant Commander Cole Turner. His voice was steady, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable.
“Classification?” Malachi asked, already knowing the answer.
“PLAN Air Force,” Turner replied. “Looks like J-15s, same as before. They’re running high-low tactics, testing our response time again.”
Malachi muttered a curse under his breath. “They are relentless. Are they holding course?”
“Negative, sir. They’re manoeuvring aggressively—looks like another probe.”
Malachi’s jaw tightened. “Vector the CAP to intercept and launch the alert five, P-WO issue the warning at 150 nautical miles!”
Turner relayed the order to flight ops, and within minutes, two F-35Cs roared off of the two electromagnetic catapults of Tangaroa’s bow, their afterburners slicing through the humid darkness of the early morning air. The deck crew moved with clockwork precision, their faces streaked with sweat, the soot of exhaust gases and exhaustion after days of relentless air operations. On the tactical display, the combat air patrol, two more of Tangaroa’s F-35Cs closed in on the incoming track. The seconds to intercept seemed to crawl by.
“Bogeys now at 150 nautical miles, Issuing warning!” Turner stated, “Comms issue the warning call.”
“Chinese aircraft, Chinese aircraft at 150 nautical miles north west of my position this is New Zealand warship Tangaroa. Declare your intent or turn back, otherwise your actions will be deemed as hostile.” The radio operator repeated several times.
“They’re getting bolder,” muttered Commander Todd Rossovich, the ship’s air group commander, as he joined Malachi at the central display. His usually easy-going demeanour was nowhere to be seen that morning. “Every run they’re pushing closer. This cat-and-mouse bullshit is out the gate Boss, it can’t go on forever!”
“No,” Malachi replied, his voice low and grim, staring at the tactical map. “It can’t. Sooner or later, someone’s going to fuck something up. Us or them, and when that happens…” He didn’t need to finish. Rossovich knew the stakes as well as he did.
The comms crackled with updates from the interceptors. The tension in the air was palpable, the command centre silent except for the hum of equipment and the clipped voices of the operators. Every blip on the radars felt like a live grenade, waiting to go off.
“PLAN birds are turning back,” Turner reported. “Same drill as before—no violations, but they’re pushing right to the edge.”
“That’s the fifth run today,” Rossovich said, shaking his head. “It’s not just testing, it’s outright intimidation—they’re wearing us down. How long are we going to have to put up with this, Boss?”
Malachi didn’t respond assuming it to be rhetorical. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, where the Chinese aircraft were retreating beyond the engagement range. The tactical display shifted as the intercepting F-35Cs broke off their pursuit and began to loiter.
“Recall the CAP,” Malachi ordered finally. “They’re probably running low on fuel, and I don’t want anyone out there longer than necessary. Get another alert five ready to go.”
“Yes, sir,” Rossovich replied, already reaching for the comms.
“P-WO,” Malachi said, turning to Turner, “I want a full analysis of those flight paths. Coordinate with the Hawkeye and track every damn signal coming out of those birds. I want to know what the Chinese are planning before they do.”
“Aye, Admiral,” Turner said, his voice resolute as he turned back to his console, issuing his own commends to his team.
Malachi exhaled slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the large digital map screen laid out before him. From this tactical display he could track the position of every ship and aircraft under his command and anything else within it’s large envelope. Beyond, the Coral Sea stretched out like an endless wasteland, its vastness offering no comfort, only the suffocating weight of what might come next. Somewhere out there lay another Chinese carrier group. They had broken away from the main group several days prior and was now shadowing their every move, just beyond their radar’s reach, its intentions as murky as the waters beneath them.
Rossovich broke the silence. “I wish we had more eyes out there, any word on the Poseidons Admiral?”
“I am reliably informed they have been deployed to RAAF Tindel along with additional E-7 support, we should have better coverage by tomorrow.” Malachi replied, scratching his chin.
“Finally some good news! Between the Aussie Wedgetails and now our own E-7’s plus the P-8’s we should be able to cover a lot more ground and give our own E-2’s a rest, they could both do with some downtime, the crews as well.” Rossovich stated, a hint of hope coming through.
Malachi glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Yes, you’re not wrong Todd, the days ahead are going to be very telling, It’s no longer a question of if. It’s when. And with more eyes working for us, we’ll be better prepared for when this shit kicks off.”
As the airborne tracks merged with the Chinese fleet, Malachi breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief, they had dodged the bullet one more time. Picking up the phone he pressed the direct line to the bridge, it was answered a moment later. “Scott, stand down from action stations, let’s let the crew have something to eat and few minutes rest.”
“Very good Admiral” Came Captain Hutchinson’s reply.
The hours dragged on, the oppressive tension refusing to let up. Even the hum of the consoles felt louder, sharper. Malachi found himself glancing at the clock, though he knew time had little meaning out here. Every minute stretched into an eternity, every decision carrying the weight of nations.
As the room settled back into its uneasy rhythm, Malachi allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. He thought about the men and women under his command, the lives depending on his decisions. He thought about the families back home, oblivious to the razor’s edge their loved ones walked on.
He straightened his posture, his expression hardening. There was no room for doubt, not now. The shadow of war was growing ever closer, and he had the awful feeling that Tangaroa would be the first to face it.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
***
Deep in the fortified bowels of the Beehive, the security council meeting room buzzed with muted tension. The air was heavy, laced with the acrid tang of too many hastily brewed coffees and the faint undertone of stress-induced sweat. A large digital display dominated the room, alive with tactical maps, intelligence reports, and a constant stream of data from units in the field. Every flicker of the screen, every red marker on the map, carried the weight of a potential disaster.
Kevin MacNielty, the Minister of Defence, strode into the room, his tie skewed, and shirt wrinkled from hours of wear. Normally the picture of meticulous grooming, today he looked like a man wrestling with the impossible. His face was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes betrayed the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept in days. But his voice was unwavering as it cut through the room’s low murmurs.
“They’re still probing our fleet repeatedly and aggressively,” Harper said to him sharply, before the man could even sit down. “It’s only a matter of time before this whole thing blows up into a fucking disaster of epic proportions.”
At the head of the table sat Prime Minister Miriama Kahu, her gaze as sharp as the words that followed. Placing her pen down deliberately, she fixed Harper with an unyielding look, clearly this was the tail-end of something which MacNielty had missed by just arriving. “I know Admiral Mason personally,” she said, her voice measured but firm. “Malachi is no hothead, but he won’t shrink from his duty either. If they push him too far, he’ll respond—and I’ll back him every goddamned step of the way.”
“If it does blow up, though…” Foreign Minister Derek Harper interjected, his voice faltering as his eyes drifted to the map. The Chinese fleet positions loomed like a spectre alongside New Zealand’s only carrier group. He left the thought unfinished, the implied question hanging like a storm cloud: Are we truly prepared for what comes next?
Deputy Prime Minister Craig Du Plessis leaned forward, his arms resting firmly on the polished table. His South African accent added an edge to his blunt reply. “Then we’ll be ready. Isn’t that right, Air Marshal?”
Air Marshal Robson, Chief of the Defence Force, nodded decisively. “We’ve gamed these scenarios out for the last few years. The fleet is positioned as well as it can be. Our joint drills with the Australians have fine-tuned our skills and our response times. If they want a fight, they’ll get one—and we’ll hit back harder than they expect.”
“Exactly,” added Lieutenant General Willy Clarkson, Chief of the Army, his voice calm but commanding. “The Airborne Regiment is in place at bases in the Northern Territory, the Queen Alexandra’s Mounted Rifles are moving north overland as we speak, and the 3rd Regiment is already aboard Ro/Ro ships heading north. If this starts on an island—and it likely will—we’ll be well on our way to securing it.”
Harper’s sceptical glance slid to Du Plessis. He wasn’t dismissing the military’s assurances, but his focus lingered on the broader political landscape. “And if Beijing escalates beyond tit-for-tat? If this turns into a full-scale war?”
Du Plessis met his gaze unflinchingly. “Then it’s not just our problem anymore, is it? ANZUS, CANZUK, the whole lot will need to get off their fucking arses. They’ve all got as much skin in this game as we do. The Solomons might be the flashpoint, but if Beijing swings, they’ll have to swing at the entire Pacific.”
Kevin let out a sharp breath and resumed pacing. “We can’t afford to think small here. I’ve just been at Pipitea Street for a briefing. The Chinese are still probing our cyber defences. We have no proof that it is them, but who else could it be? Openly though, they are shadowing our ships, testing our fleet’s airspace. They’re looking for cracks—any chink in the armour.”
“And have they found one?” Miriama asked, her voice cutting through the tension like a hot knife.
Kevin stopped pacing, turning to face her. “No, not yet. But they’re relentless little fuckers. It’s only a matter of time before something gives.”
“Then we make damn sure that nothing does,” Miriama snapped, her voice rising just enough to command the room’s attention. “We stay ahead of them, we keep our shit tight and make it very clear we’re not gonna be intimidated into submission.”
Harper leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The strain of the past week was etched into his face. “We’re standing on a knife’s edge here, Miriama. One misstep—just one—and it’s all over. The entire region goes up in flames.”
Miriama’s gaze hardened, steel in her voice. “For fuck’s sake Derek, grow a set of balls! No one here wants war, but I’ll be damned if I let New Zealand be bullied. If we don’t stand firm now, what message does that send to our people? To our allies? I agree with you, that we do need to tread carefully, but we must do so with purpose.”
The room fell silent, her words weighing heavily on everyone present. The faint hum of the monitors filled the void until Robson broke the quiet, his voice low but resolute. “The fleet’s holding the line, ma’am. Mason is a good man. He won’t start anything unnecessarily—but if a fight comes, he’ll damn well finish it, I can assure you of that!”
Miriama nodded, her expression softening just enough to show gratitude. “I trust him. And I trust all of you to keep us steady, no matter how rough the waters get. We have to be ready for anything.” Squaring her shoulders, she looked to her Defence Minister. “Now then Kevin, lets hear more about these cyber-attacks, have we learnt anything more?”
A quiet determination settled over the room as they got back to business. Beyond the reinforced walls of the Beehive, the Pacific edged closer to a precipice. But inside, New Zealand’s leaders braced themselves, their resolve unshaken in the face of an uncertain future.
***
In the Timor and Arafura seas the Australian’s weren’t fairing much better. From almost the moment HMAS Melbourne had arrived she was being shadowed by long range spy planes from the Chinese mainland. Another carrier group arrived the following day and they too began to play cat and mouse games. Rear Admiral James Harrington the Australian group commander was having just as many problems as his kiwi counterpart.
The Command Information Centre (CIC) aboard HMAS Melbourne was a hive of controlled chaos. Screens flickered with data feeds, tactical maps updated in real time, and the hum of equipment filled the air like the unrelenting background buzz of a persistent mozzie. Harrington stood at the centre of it all, his hands clasped tightly to the tactical map desk, his sharp eyes scanning the displays.
“Status, P-WO?” Harrington demanded, his voice cutting through the hum like a knife.
“Multiple contacts, Admiral,” reported Lieutenant Commander Ethan Carmichael, the Principal Warfare Officer, seated at his console. “Two aircraft holding steady high and slow at 200 nautical miles probably a KJ-500, maintaining a loose orbit, Hawkeye’s keeping an eye on them. We’ve got another four orbiting at 180 nautical miles, J-15’s again, judging by speed and direction. Probing patterns, same as before.”
Harrington exhaled through his nose. “Shit! They’re watching us pissing into the wind here and laughing at us, just waiting for something to go wrong.”
Commander Matthew Rigby, Melbourne’s Executive Officer, leaned in beside him, his expression dark. “They’re daring us to make a move, Admiral.”
Harrington nodded. “P-WO, What’s their track?”
“They’re shifting, sir,” Carmichael replied, his tone calm but focused. “Looks like they’re angling to sweep south of us. Testing our coverage.”
“They’re more persistent than a bloody telemarketer,” Carmichael muttered, a moment later, his fingers flying over his console as he adjusted the radar tracking.
Harrington’s jaw tightened as he turned to Commander Tyson McAllister, the air group commander, standing near the tactical table. “Ty, how’s our air cover?”
McAllister crossed his arms, the flight deck’s ever-present rumble still ringing faintly in his ears. “Two flights of two F-35Cs are airborne right now, but they’ve been up there for almost ninety minutes, we need to rotate them out, they’re dangerously close to running on fumes and so are the pilots. The alert five is spinning up now, ready for launch.”
“Do it,” Harrington ordered. “As soon as they’re off the deck, replace them and get those other birds home. Make sure our pilots are getting enough rest and for god’s sake, make sure they’re briefed out the arse! These pricks are playing a dangerous game with us up there, and I don’t want one of our kids eating a missile because someone got twitchy.”
“Aye, sir,” McAllister said, already relaying orders through his comms.
“They’re still outside engagement range,” Carmichael noted, squinting at his display. “But they’re pushing the line. If they keep creeping in, it’s going to look like more than probing.”
“Which is exactly what they want,” Rigby said grimly. “They’re trying to force us into a goddamn mistake.”
“Well, they’re not going to get it,” Harrington said sharply. “We’re going to play this one by the book, no matter how much they try to rattle us. P-WO, keep those tracks updated every second. If they so much as fart, I want to know about it.”
“Aye, sir,” Carmichael replied, his hands moving across the controls with practiced precision.
Harrington picked up the direct link to the bridge. “Sophie, let’s move a little to the west and turn inland, I want a full sweep of our eastern flank, If they’re trying to slip something past us, that’s where it’ll be.”
“Very good, Admiral,” Melbourne’s commanding officer, Captain Sophie Caldwell confirmed, her focus unshaken as she relayed the new commands to the bridge crew.
McAllister stepped closer to the admiral. “Sir, I don’t mean to be an alarmist, but this isn’t standard harassment. They’ve been probing hard for days, and they’re doing it in shifts. This feels coordinated, like they’re trying to intimidate us.”
Harrington nodded grimly. “You’re not wrong, Ty. The clever fuckers are testing our response times, looking for weaknesses and being typical big boy bullies. They don’t want us here and they very much want us to know that. We’re playing defence here, but I’ll be damned if I let them score the first goal of this match!”
“Admiral, signal from Victorious on the hydrophone, they’re going deep and heading north west, they say they’re running down a possible contact and will advise.”
“Very well….” Harrington’s response was unceremoniously cut off by a sudden alert chiming through the CIC, drawing everyone’s attention back to the screens.
“Admiral, the lead aircraft just turned in hot,” Carmichael said, his voice tight. “They’re accelerating toward us. Distance now 150 nautical miles.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rigby muttered under his breath.
“Calm down Commander,” Harrington soothed. Then an instant later, his voice a whip crack of authority. “P-WO, confirm their intent and make the call. Ty, order our birds to intercept. I want those birds locked and ready, but do not—repeat, do not—engage unless fired upon.”
“Yes, sir,” McAllister said, already issuing commands to the flight deck.
“Make the call, Aye Sir!” Carmichael nodded, “Comms make the call.”
“Chinese aircraft, Chinese aircraft at 150 nautical miles north east of my position this is Australian warship Melbourne. Declare your intent or turn back, otherwise your actions will be deemed hostile.”
The tension in the CIC thickened as the seconds crawled by. Harrington stood like a rock at the centre of the storm, the organised chaos swirling around him, his eyes glued to the tactical display. Every blip on the screen a potential flashpoint, the line between surveillance and engagement razor-thin.
“Contacts have turned away,” Carmichael reported suddenly. “They’re retreating to beyond 180 nautical miles. Looks like they’re backing off again.”
“Well, would you look at that, they didn’t even wait to be chased off this time,” Rigby muttered, running a hand over his face. “But you can guarantee those big birds are watching everything we do. They’re playing us like a fuckin fiddle here.”
“Let them play,” Harrington said coldly. “Every pass gives us more intel. Next time, we’ll be even more ready. By all accounts Mason and the Kiwis are having the same issues, but with the standoff on their doorstep, I don’t envy them.”
The room relaxed slightly, but the tension lingered just below the surface. Harrington straightened, his voice cutting through the thick air.
“This isn’t a game we can afford to lose, people. Stay sharp. P-WO, keep those contacts on radar. Ty, make sure our pilots are briefed and rested. EX-O, make sure the rest of ship is getting as much rest as they can. We’re not letting these assholes out of our sight, and we can’t afford to make any mistakes!”
“Aye, Admiral,” came the unified reply, each officer snapping back to their tasks with renewed focus.
Harrington stared at the screens, his hands tightening on the railing. The shadow of war loomed closer with every pass, but he was determined to meet it head-on. Whatever came next, the Melbourne and her crew would be ready.
***
The Hall of the People was a storm of restrained chaos. Around the polished mahogany table, the members of the Politburo’s Security Council sat rigidly, their faces a mix of unease and frustration. President Xiang Wei stood at the head of the table, his expression thunderous, the veneer of composure cracking under the weight of his anger.
“This is unacceptable!” Xiang thundered, slamming his palm on the table. “It has been more than a week and the New Zealanders remain resolute in the Coral Sea, and the Australians persist in the Timor and Arafura Seas. They are getting dangerously close to tipping our hand. Where is our progress?”
Minister of Defence Liang Qiang, seated to Xiang’s right, spoke with forced calm. “Comrade President, our forces have maintained constant surveillance and pressure. The overflights and probes have forced their carriers to maintain high alert. They are expending resources and—”
“Spare me the justifications, Liang,” Xiang interrupted sharply. “They are still there, unimpeded. And now we receive reports that a British group is moving towards the Pacific. Is this your idea of control?”
Minister Zhang Rui, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, interjected diplomatically. “Comrade President, it is possible their actions are provocations, intended to draw us into a misstep. An escalation could provide them with the pretext they need for broader intervention.”
General Chen Jianhong, Chief of the Defence Force, leaned forward, his voice a low rumble. “If they think we will hesitate forever, they are mistaken. We have kept our aircraft probing their defences day and night. Every approach is carefully calibrated, just within international law, but enough to test their responses. We have mapped their radar limits and forced their carriers to burn through resources.”
“Barely scratching the surface,” Xiang snapped. He turned to Admiral Liu Zhenhai, the Chief of the Navy. “And you, Admiral? You command the most advanced fleet in the world. Are you really going to let these, ‘little fish’ embarrass you in this manner?”
Admiral Liu’s jaw tightened. “Comrade President, our naval assets are spread thin due to our obligations in the South China Sea and Indian Ocean. While we have the numbers to apply pressure, a direct confrontation at this point would expose our positions and leave other fronts vulnerable. We must be measured.”
“Measured?” Xiang barked. “While the enemy consolidates? While the British sail unimpeded into our Pacific?”
Director Sun Kai of the Ministry of State Security (MSS) spoke up, his tone calm but authoritative. “Comrade President, the British task group has been flagged by our sources. We have already deployed reconnaissance assets to monitor its approach, and way-lay it wherever possible. With the war still waging in the middle east, it must sail around the horn of Africa, even at best speed it will take another week, if not two, to reach the area. Additionally, there are additional signs the Australians and New Zealanders are coordinating with their closest allies. Their surveillance capabilities are formidable, as is their efforts to thwart our cyber advances. I find it impossible to believe that a country like New Zealand has the capability to withstand our cyber assault for this long. They must be getting considerable help from somewhere, if we can ‘disrupt’ that help, things would go a lot smoother for us.”
“Yes, I agree, do what you must Director!” Xiang snarled in response.
General Zhao Min, Chief of the Air Force, interjected with barely concealed frustration. “Their capabilities do not make them invulnerable. Our J-15s have repeatedly penetrated within range of their carriers. Each time, we have forced their F-35s to respond, and each response reveals more about their tactics. We will learn how to defeat them soon enough.”
President Xiang’s glare settled on General Zhao. “Yet you have not goaded them into striking. Why? Perhaps your men are not as brave as you claim!”
Zhao’s expression reddened with his rising temper, but he managed to keep his head. He took a steadying breath so that his response was calm and resolute. “Because, Comrade President, they are waiting for us to do just that. A premature strike would give them the moral high ground. We are bleeding them strategically by forcing them to remain on alert. Their aircraft and ships have limitations we are exploiting.”
Major General Fang Wenhao, the Army’s Head of Special Operations, chimed in. “With respect, Comrade President, this is a war of attrition for now. Our forces are positioned to act decisively when the time comes. I am already reviewing covert insertion plans for the islands should escalation occur.”
Xiang’s voice was cold as ice. “Do not speak to me of attrition, General Fang. Time is not on our side. Every moment we hesitate, we embolden them, and they draw closer! What of this news of their troop movements, I have a report stating that they are prepositioning considerable land forces in Australia?”
“Our source has confirmed this Comrade President.” Director Sun Kai replied. “A light infantry regiment, their regiments are roughly equivalent to one of our brigades in size, has already been moved to the north along with helicopters and an armoured regiment is moving north. We have just received word that an additional motorised regiment has been loaded onto boats and is also heading north.”
“This madness is getting out of hand!” Xiang stated impatiently. “Liang, Zhang, you assured me they would back down, does this look they are backing down to you? All of our plans will be comprised if you do not get this mess under control!”
Minister Zhang Rui tried again to de-escalate. “Comrade President, it may be wise to consider diplomatic channels to stall their advances. If we can create uncertainty at their leadership level, it may slow their movements.”
“Diplomacy?” Xiang spat, his temper boiling over. “While they bring more warships and now troops into our waters? No, Zhang. They do not appear interested and the time for polite words has passed. Liang, Chen—prepare for escalation contingencies, we must maintain secrecy as long as possible. Zhao, keep those carriers under constant pressure. Liu, redeploy assets to ensure no task group moves without our knowledge. And Sun, I want actionable intelligence on their next steps within the week.”
The room was silent, the weight of Xiang’s words pressing down like a storm cloud. Finally, General Chen Jianhong spoke, his voice measured. “As you command, Comrade President. We will be ready.”
“You had better be,” Xiang replied darkly. “The Pacific will not be lost on my watch.”