In the southwest Pacific, near Fiji the sea was calm, but the tension on the bridge of the HMNZS Canterbury felt heavy, oppressive. The Achilles-class air warfare destroyer, and the Australian frigate HMAS Maitland cut through the deep blue waters of the South Pacific, their sleek hulls reflecting the dim afternoon light, but they were not alone.
Shadowing them, three People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) warships had joined them overnight and had maintained a deliberate but unmistakable presence. The lead vessel, a Type 052D destroyer, was positioned off their port side, its deck bristling with weapon systems. Flanking it were two corvettes, their movements methodical and synchronized. It was a classic show of force—intimidation without outright aggression.
On the Canterbury’s bridge, Captain Caleb Robinson stood at the centre of controlled chaos. His XO monitored radar contacts, comms officers relayed coded signals, and the tactical display showed the unmistakable encroachment of the Chinese warships. Every man and woman on the bridge knew the stakes.
Then, the radio crackled to life.
“Unidentified Western warships, this is Chinese warship Guangyuan of the People's Liberation Army Navy. You are entering a maritime security zone established by the People's Republic of China. You will alter course immediately. Failure to comply will be seen as an act of provocation.”
The message was smooth, professional. But the undertone was clear—turn back, or else.
Captain Robinson’s grip on the rail tightened. He glanced at the tactical display again, seeing how carefully the Chinese had positioned themselves. If this went bad, if a single misstep led to an exchange of fire, things could go awfully wrong awfully quick.
He exhaled. Stay calm. Hold the line.
Pressing the transmit button, his voice came through steady and clear. “This is New Zealand warship Canterbury. We are operating in international waters in accordance with the laws of the sea. Any attempt to restrict freedom of navigation will be regarded as hostile interference.”
A long pause.
Then, a second voice joined the conversation.
“Canterbury this is Maitland. We’re with you, but tread carefully Captain.”
Her words were measured but firm. No grandstanding. No unnecessary escalation. Just the simple, absolute commitment of an ally standing firm.
Aboard the Maitland, Lang’s expression was unreadable as she watched the PLAN destroyer inch closer on the main display. They were testing them. Measuring how far Wellington and Canberra were willing to go. If either ship so much as flinched, China would push harder the next time.
On the Canterbury, Robinson knew it too. He could almost hear the calculations running through the Chinese Captain’s head on the other side of the line.
Then, another transmission.
“Foreign warships. Your governments are making a dangerous miscalculation. This is your final warning. Adjust course, or we will be forced to act.”
The implication was clear. Next time, it might not be just words.
Robinson let the moment stretch before answering, each second a deliberate act of defiance.
“Then I suggest you choose carefully what you’re forced to do, Guangyuan.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Aboard the PLAN destroyer, Wei Zhong sat stiffly in his command chair. His orders were to push, to pressure, to make the Westerners yield. But if they called his bluff and he escalated, the repercussions could spiral beyond anyone’s control. He clenched his jaw.
“New Zealand Warship, repeat your last, your english is very poor and we did not understand you.” The Chinese captain goaded.
“Chinese Warship, I think you understood me perfectly, we are breaking no laws and will continue on course, you are welcome to join us.”
After a long pause, the Chinese ships held their position—but did not advance further.
The standoff lasted another tense hour, each side watching the other with the cold intensity of predators weighing the cost of a fight. Then, slowly, the PLAN vessels began adjusting course, slipping back into the open ocean, their message delivered.
On the Canterbury’s bridge, Robinson released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Lang’s voice came through again, softer this time. “Canterbury this is Maitland. Well played, Captain that’s a nice pair you have there.”
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Likewise.”
But no one relaxed. Not really. Because the Chinese weren’t backing down. They were just waiting for the next opportunity and once the video, taken from a nearby island, of the incident surfaced, the world held it’s breath.
***
While warships in the Pacific played their dangerous game, another battle was unfolding in the cold, dark waters of the Tasman Sea. Above, the ocean stretched vast and indifferent, a blue wasteland broken only by the occasional whitecap. But beneath those rolling waves, a different kind of duel had begun—a contest of stealth, patience, and deadly precision.
HMNZS Hamana glided silently through the depths, one of New Zealand’s new but formidable German made 212CD, referred to locally as the Mako-class diesel-electric submarines. Unlike the nuclear-powered giants that prowled the Pacific, she was a smaller, deadlier instrument—built for ambush, for precision strikes, for the kind of asymmetric warfare that could humble a larger adversary.
Her Air Independent Propulsion system rendered her nearly undetectable, allowing her to linger in the abyss for weeks without surfacing. To the untrained ear, she was a whisper in the dark. To an enemy, she was death unseen.
New Zealand was relatively new to the undersea game, and they had a steep learning curve if they wanted to catch up with even their closest neighbours. The Royal New Zealand Navy’s submarine program was barely a decade old—a fledgling force in a domain ruled by veteran navies. But what they lacked in experience, they made up for in tenacity.
The journey had begun in Australia, when Wellington announced the purchase of six German-built submarines—an acquisition that had stunned even the defence establishment. From the moment the deal was made public, enlistments for the submariner service exploded. The chance to serve on New Zealand’s first real submarine fleet was an irresistible call to those seeking a challenge. Enthusiasm alone didn’t make a submariner. The path ahead was brutal.
The Royal Australian Navy (RAN), a longtime ally and mentor, had provided the initial training pipeline. The best candidates being handpicked by Australian instructors and sent to Australian submarine schools, where they learned the fundamentals of life beneath the waves—navigation, damage control, sonar warfare. Others joined exchange programs on RAN submarines, gaining their first real-world experience aboard the larger Collins-class and later, the AUKUS SSNs. By the time the first two Mako-class boats arrived in New Zealand waters, there were already trained crews ready to take the helm.
And now, a decade later, New Zealand had its own submarine training program. The first homegrown graduates were just beginning to trickle into the fleet—young, aggressive, and eager to prove that the Royal New Zealand Navy could hold its own in the deadly world of undersea warfare. The Hamana’s crew were among the best of this new breed, and tonight, they were hunting.
In the sonar room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The operator was locked onto his screen, ears finely tuned to the symphony of the ocean, searching for discordant notes among the background hum of the deep.
“Conn, Sonar,” came the report, calm but laced with urgency. “New sub-surface contact, bearing two-two-zero at 500 feet. Just came above the thermocline. Slow mover. Low-frequency signature. Possible nuclear boat. Designate target Sierra One.”
At the conn the Hamana’s captain, Lieutenant Commander Ken Matsuda absorbed the information, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied the digital readouts. Beside him, Lieutenant Katie Murphy, his Executive Officer, remained silent, but Matsuda didn’t need to look at her to know they were thinking the same thing.
“Sonar, Conn. Can you identify?”
“Conn, Sonar. Computer is calling it a Chinese Type 094 Jin-class nuclear boomer,” the sonar op replied crisply, his fingers dancing over his keyboard. “Contact is levelling off at 450 feet, speed is 6 knots, it’s holding steady on two-two-zero.”
A silence settled over the command centre. Nuclear ballistic missile submarines did not operate in such waters unless they had a purpose. Jin-class boats were designed for strategic deterrence, not tactical skirmishes. If one had pushed this far south into the Tasman Sea, it meant Beijing was sending a message—one they had no intention of whispering.
Murphy’s voice was quiet, almost grim. “Looks like the reports from the Americans were true. The Chinese are moving subs south. But a boomer here in the Tasman? That will not end well.”
“No, it won’t.” Matsuda nodded. “Nav, where are we?”
“We’re about here sir.” Lieutenant Ananya Gupta replied pointing to a spot on the laminated paper chart. “Roughly 167 by 36, the Norfolk Trough, just outside the EEZ.”
“Sonar, Conn. Any indication they’ve spotted us?”
“Conn, Sonar. No skipper, none at all, course depth and speed are steady.” This big ole heavy Jin-class has no idea they’re being hunted, thought the sonarman.
"Alright, let’s slip into her baffles and maintain a shadowing course," Matsuda ordered. "No active sonar. We stay quiet. I want to know what she’s up to."
Murphy nodded. "Aye, sir," then turned sharply, issuing quiet but firm orders to the crew.
In the dim, red-lit control room of HMNZS Hamana, the tension was thick, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of the ship’s systems and the occasional hushed voice. With such a small crew, within minutes every man and woman aboard knew what they were up to.
The Hamana moved with the lethal grace of a predator, her AIP drive and sound deadening matting, making her little more than a ghostly whisper, slipping silently into the blind spot behind the Chinese submarine’s stern. Even with all of the technological advancements that had been made with submarines over the years, the baffles still remained a vulnerability—an area where even the most sophisticated sonar was ineffective. It was the oldest trick in the book, and still one of the most effective.
The Jin-class boomer continued its slow, deliberate crawl through the depths. That alone was a red flag. Nuclear submarines did not creep along like this unless they were up to something.
Matsuda narrowed his eyes as he studied the digital tactical display. “She’s too slow,” he murmured to Murphy. “She’s not transiting. She’s positioning.”
Murphy nodded grimly. “She’s waiting for something.”
For several hours, Hamana stalked its prey, gliding through the water with eerie precision. The Navigator worked with feverish focus, her hands constantly adjusting bearings and course corrections to keep their position tight behind the target.
In the sonar room, the sonar operator sat rigid, listening to every whisper of the deep. The steady thrum-thrum-thrum of the Jin-class’s propeller was their lifeline. As long as they could hear it, they could follow it.
But one wrong adjustment—one noise too loud—could give them away. The minutes stretched into hours, a nerve-wracking test of patience and control.
“Conn, sonar! Hull popping noises—target’s going shallow.”
A ripple of tension ran through the control room. Matsuda leaned forward. What the hell was a boomer doing going shallow?
“Keep with her,” he said quietly, voice taut with anticipation. “Nav, position?”
Both submarines began to ascend.
“We’ve passed the EEZ line skipper, about 169 by 37.5! We’re less than 500 kilometres from Auckland!”
Murphy’s fingers curled around the edge of the plotting table. “This isn’t right,” she muttered. “Boomers don’t do this, unless….”
Gupta spoke up, her voice edged with concern. “Unless they’re preparing to launch.”
Matsuda’s jaw tightened. The Jin was rising, possibly preparing to communicate with a surface vessel, but something didn’t add up.
“Follow her up,” he ordered.
Both submarines ascended through the water column, minute adjustments keeping them hidden. Matsuda’s blood ran cold, could Gupta be right? A ballistic missile launch, here, now? A cold, mechanical certainty overtook Matsuda’s thoughts. There was no hesitation. A fresh chill ran through the room, and Matsuda’s jaw tightened. “Sonar, Conn. Confirm contact depth!”
A pause.
“Conn, Sonar. Contact depth now 150 feet. Wait…”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
A low vibration rippled through the water as power surged into the Chinese Submarine’s missile tubes. Hydraulic pistons groaned, like ancient leviathans awakening from their slumber. The massive hatches, sealed against the ocean’s crushing pressure, cracked open with a muted shudder. Silver clouds of displaced water spiralled toward the surface as the chamber flooded, embracing the abyss. Inside its launch cradle, a towering missile lay motionless—an unlit spear poised for war. The submarine remained still, a silent executioner in the depths, as final systems engaged.
“New transient contact! Missile tube doors opening!”
The blood drained from Murphy’s face. “Jesus.”
He leaned over the Principal Warfare Officer, Sub-Lieutenant Victor Müller. “Confirm that.”
Müller’s hands flew across the console. “Confirmed, sir. They’re opening launch tubes.”
For a moment, the entire control room went deathly silent. Matsuda hesitated briefly, if they waited too long, that missile would leave the water and then it wouldn’t matter what happened next. He took a slow breath, but what if he was wrong, no matter what he decided in the next few minutes, he wasn’t going to be able to take any of it back. When he spoke, his resolve was like iron, his voice strong and firm.
“Full astern, give us some distance and flood tubes one and two. Set torpedoes for active homing, this is going to be a point blank hip shot. Fire on my mark.”
The order was given with the same measured tone he might have used for a drill, but every soul aboard knew what it meant. Instantly the Hamana started to cavitate with the extreme power of her propellor in reverse and the two submarines started to separate.
Müller’s response was immediate. “Tubes one and two, ready Skipper.”
A colossal blast of compressed air shattered the silence, hurling the missile from its steel womb. A boiling vortex of white water erupted around it, an explosion of chaotic energy in the otherwise still sea. The projectile shot upward, a black arrow cutting through the water at terrifying speed. As it ascended, the crushing pressure of the depths relented, and the ocean lightened. The missile moved unhindered, a harbinger of destruction rising toward the surface.
“Conn, Sonar! Tubes blowing! Missile launch!”
Above them a towering column of white water erupted, and the sea cracked open as the missile breached the surface, shearing through the waves in an instant of raw power, its sleek body carving a path skyward. As the ocean fell away, the first-stage rocket motor ignited. A torrent of flame and thunder burst forth, searing across the sky. The missile roared into the heavens, trailing a plume of fire as it climbed beyond the reach of clouds, racing toward the stratosphere.
The act was a message, one fired at New Zealand’s doorstep.
Matsuda exhaled. Not today. “Mark.”
The Hamana shuddered as first one, then a second Mark 48 Mod 7 CBASS torpedoes surged from their tubes, cutting through the depths like silent predators.
Seconds stretched into eternity. The boomer, having become aware of the danger they were now in, had started a sharp turn and a steep dive, but it was too late, they were too close. The first torpedo found its mark, shearing off the Jin’s propeller and sending torn and now useless piece of brass spiralling to the murky depths below. The second torpedo struck the midsection, rupturing the hull just below the sail.
The ocean swallowed the chaos before spewing it back. Sonar filled with the chaotic cacophony of implosions and emergency surfacing alarms.
“Conn, Sonar! Direct hit! She’s blowing emergency!, She’s surfacing—”
The crippled Chinese submarine broke through the surface, belching steam and debris. Its once-menacing form was now a broken wreck, wounded but afloat.
Above the waves, the missile was still climbing, an iron fist thrown toward the heavens, immediately picked up by early warning radar. At RNZAF bases Woodbourne and Whenuapai, sirens howled as F-15EX Eagle IIs roared into the sky. The intercept was on—but before the fighters could reach altitude—The missile detonated.
A self-destruct command, perhaps? But was it intentional, or something else, did Beijing ever actually intend to let the missile reach land. Who knew, but the message was clear: We can strike you at any time.
Matsuda exhaled, his grip on the periscope tightening as the weight of what had transpired settled over him. The Hamana had won its first real fight, but the war was far from over.
The tension in the control room remained thick, unspoken words hanging between the officers.
“Comms, fire off burst traffic to Wellington,” Matsuda ordered. “Inform them of what just happened and our actions. Provide precise coordinates of the incident and advise the dispatch of a rescue vessel for the Chinese crew.”
“Understood, sir,” Sub-Lieutenant Costa replied, already typing the message.
Matsuda took one final look at the ruined Jin-class through the periscope before straightening.
“Helm, take us deep.”
As the battered Chinese submarine drifted in the waves, HMNZS Hamana slipped away into the abyss. A shadow in the deep. A silent guardian.
***
Hours later, as the sun set behind the distant hills of the South Island, HMNZS Rotoiti—an offshore patrol vessel—was dispatched from Devonport. Her sleek hull cut through the waters with precision. Their orders: “Rescue operation for the Chinese crew.” She was equipped for more than routine patrols and law enforcement; this was a mission of mercy.
Aboard Rotoiti, her captain Lt.Cmdr Shane Anderson studied the encrypted message from Hamana. The Chinese submarine, crippled but not sunk, had surfaced and was drifting with its crew in no shape to navigate or defend themselves. They had narrowly avoided death, but now, their fate would lie in the hands of New Zealand’s Navy.
The Rotoiti closed the distance quickly. As it approached the damaged Chinese submarine, Anderson issued orders to prepare for rescue operations. The Chinese crew—injured, disoriented, and with few options—watched as the New Zealand vessel drew near. Their hopes of survival hanging in the balance.
With the precision of a well-oiled machine, Rotoiti positioned herself alongside the crippled submarine, the weathered hull of the Chinese vessel barely staying afloat. The crew of the Rotoiti lowered rescue lines, pulling the stranded sailors aboard one by one. The Chinese officers, including their captain, remained silent, their faces betraying a mix of awe and resentment at their saviours.
As the final member of the Chinese crew was hauled aboard, Anderson gave the order to rig tow lines. With the delicate work of boarding complete, the Rotoiti set course for the protected waters of Nelson, the damaged Chinese submarine being towed behind, trailing in the wake like a shadow of its former might.
Nelson Harbour was a serene contrast to the storm that had brewed on the high seas. The Rotoiti maneuvered the wrecked Chinese submarine into the harbour, a spectacle that drew the attention of local residents and military personnel alike.
Under the cover of night, New Zealand Navy personnel took charge of the Chinese crew, carefully transferring them to awaiting facilities. The orders were clear: ensure they remain secure, treat them with respect and provide any and all medical care, but make no promises about their future.
A few days later the Hamana sailed silently into Nelson Harbour, for provisions and to restock her two torpedoes. The Chinese sub was still there tied alongside, under the watchful eye of RNZN security personnel, a make-shift propellor was being installed and there was evidence of Australian submariners on the hull and the docks, giving Matsuda the impression, that the big boomer was destined for Australia’s submarine labs.
***
Later that day at an emergency meeting of the Politburo Standing Committee the air in the conference room was thick with tension, the kind that came from failure—not just any failure, but a catastrophic humiliation at the hands of an enemy that should never have been capable of such a feat. Around the long, dark-wood table, the most powerful men in China sat in stony silence, their faces betraying nothing, but the stiffness in their shoulders and the tightness of their jaws spoke volumes.
At the head of the table sat President Xiang Wei, his fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listened. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his presence bore down on everyone in the room. Before him, on a large screen, were grainy infrared images: the crippled Type 094 Jin-class ballistic missile submarine, adrift, surrounded by a New Zealand offshore patrol vessel. Another image showed its surviving crew—disarmed, detained, humiliated.
To Xiang’s left, Admiral Liu Zhenhai, the commander of the PLA Navy, stared at the images with a clenched jaw. A ballistic missile submarine—a symbol of China’s naval power—was now in enemy hands. Worse, it had been neutralized not by any of their traditional enemies, but by New Zealand!
"It is unacceptable," Liu finally said, clutching the printed report from the submarine’s captain, his voice low, taut with barely restrained fury. "One of our most vital strategic assets, neutralized by a diesel-electric submarine—from a third-rate force that should never have been capable of such an operation." His lip curled in disgust.
Director Sun Kai leaned forward. "We do not yet know if they acted alone in this. The Australians are moving warships into the area. The British are supplying undersea drones and likely have their own submarines in the area. And the Americans remain silent—too silent. They knew. Whether or not they were directly involved, they were aware of the operation."
Minister of Defence Liang Qiang exhaled sharply. "The loss of the submarine is one issue. But the missile…" He glanced around the table. "They will never believe it was an accident. A ballistic missile, launched near their waters? To the West, this was a deliberate act of provocation. And now, instead of deterrence, we have given them justification and direct access to our deepest nuclear secrets!"
Silence. The implications were clear.
Then Xiang Wei spoke, his voice calm, deliberate. "This was meant to demonstrate strength. Instead, we have exposed weaknesses. And now the enemy grows bolder." His eyes swept across the table, cold and analytical. "New Zealand should have been an afterthought by now! Yet they have struck us and remain unpunished!" His hand slamming on the table so hard, the noise reverberated around the room.
Admiral Liu straightened. "We can deploy assets to track and harass their submarines, their patrols—force them to be more cautious."
Xiang waved a dismissive hand. "That is the work of small minds. I am thinking bigger. Economic warfare will not work, they are not reliant on us anymore. Cyber operations have failed to provide adequate results thus far. Political destabilization may be our only option left. If New Zealand wishes to act like a major power, we will make them suffer like one."
Director Sun Kai hesitated before speaking. "There is something else. Our sources indicate that the existence of ‘Iron Lotus’ may have been discovered."
The room stilled.
The phrase was known only to a select few. Iron Lotus—Nathan Liu, the former Deputy Minister for Defence of New Zealand, a man who had worked for years to subtly guide Wellington away from hard confrontations with Beijing. An asset Beijing could not afford to lose.
Sun continued. "Our assumption was that we were feeding them disinformation to create internal divisions. But there is a possibility—no, a likelihood—that they anticipated this. That they are using our own operation against us."
The implications settled over the room like a suffocating fog.
Xiang’s fingers tapped against the table once—a sign that he was deep in thought. "If that is true," he murmured, "then we must accelerate our efforts."
His decision was made.
Xiang’s gaze was cold, ruthless. "If New Zealand believes they have uncovered a spy, then let them chase shadows. We will turn their paranoia into chaos. If they believe they have won, we will make their own democracy collapse from within."
The men around the table nodded. Some grim. Others eager.
***
Within days, the political situation had spiralled beyond any attempt at containment. The crippled Chinese submarine was now in the custody of the New Zealand Defence Force, its wounded hull, far too big to hide, was clearly visible from the air and coastline. Despite official silence, the reality was impossible to suppress. Civilian drones, amateur photographers, and local fishermen had all captured images of the damaged vessel as it was escorted under armed guard to Oceania Naval Works. The wrecked hulk, its once-imposing silhouette now a cautionary tale, had become an undeniable spectacle.
But the submarine was not the true cause of panic. It was the missile.
A ballistic missile—the kind meant for strategic warfare—had been launched inside New Zealand’s waters. The sheer gravity of such an action was impossible to overstate. The world had seen the launch signature, even if the missile had never reached its target. The explosion from its apparent self-detonation had been visible for miles, an eerie fireball in the twilight sky. Adding to that mess, the scramble of RNZAF fighter jets had been captured on video. Plane spotters at Whenuapai and Woodbourne had filmed the heavily armed F-15EX Eagle IIs rocketing into the sky, their afterburners blazing, intercepting a threat they never got the chance to neutralize. Within minutes, those videos were on social media.
The news broke with the force of an earthquake and the speculation was instant.
Across the country, panic began to spread. Supermarket shelves were cleared overnight as citizens, rattled by the thought of war, stockpiled food, water, and essentials. Calls flooded into Radio New Zealand talk-back and other radio stations, with frantic voices demanding answers or spinning tall tales and conspiracy theories. Some feared an imminent Chinese first strike, others speculated about nuclear retaliation, and many simply wanted to know what the hell the government was hiding.
As international pressure mounted, New Zealand’s Prime Minister Miriama Kahu stepped forward. As part of her daily news broadcast to brief the public, which she had been giving since the sinking, she appeared on live television and laid it all bare, her dark eyes hard with resolve. The usual warmth in her voice was absent, replaced by a steely authority that echoed across the globe.
"This act of aggression is not just an attack on New Zealand, but on international peace itself. A submarine-launched ballistic missile could only have one purpose: A catastrophic first strike! We will not be intimidated, nor will we stand by while our sovereignty and the security of the global community is threatened by such reckless actions1"
The weight of her words hung heavy in the silence that followed.
Standing beside her, Australian Prime Minister John Mitchell delivered his own statement, his voice as cold as the Southern Ocean.
"We stand united in condemning this reckless provocation. What China has done is not only an affront to New Zealand but to every peaceful nation in the Pacific and beyond. This will not go unanswered."
The press conference continued for several minutes, with much of the same information that the people already knew, including calls for calm and for unity..
Neither leader directly acknowledged the capture of the Chinese submarine or its crew, even when directly questioned by the press, but the implication was clear. The Chinese government, in an attempt to downplay the event, immediately issued a response through state media, calling New Zealand’s statements "fabrications" and "blatant lies," denying any involvement in the launch of the missile and the loss of the submarine, even going so far as to imply that the missile was an allied one, meant to look Chinese, to paint them in a bad light. "We have no knowledge of any incident involving a Chinese vessel," the communiqué stated, "and these false accusations are a deliberate attempt to destabilize international relations."
But the world was not fooled. The growing tension was palpable, and in response to Beijing's continued provocations, New Zealand and Australia took decisive steps. In the days that followed, Kahu and Mitchell announced an expanded military strengthening of their forces in the Pacific region and in light of this latest incident, in both New Zealand and Australia, reserve forces would be recalled to active duty. Australia, for its part, deployed additional, warships, and reconnaissance assets to bolster the defence of their mutual interests and a more robust presence in the region became the new normal.
On the surface, it seemed as though the world was holding its breath. But beneath it all, the wheels of diplomacy and military readiness were already in motion. As for the Chinese government, its continued silence about the missing submarine only deepened the suspicion of its neighbours. Meanwhile, the captured crew of the Chinese vessel remained unclaimed by the PRC government and were still being held in secure facilities in New Zealand. Their fate now completely uncertain as they became pawns in a geopolitical game they had never expected to play.
The United Kingdom sent additional assets to the area including further ships and also, for the first time in decades, troops, including a battalion of Royal Marine Commandoes. For its part, Canada in a rare but pointed statement, condemned China’s "malicious actions that threaten Pacific security." And also sent further assets south.
Behind the scenes, the United States remained silent—but their silence spoke volumes.
Satellite movements suggested an increase in U.S. reconnaissance flights over the region. Unmarked signals intelligence aircraft were detected operating out of Guam and Darwin. American naval assets, though not publicly acknowledged, had subtly shifted their patrol patterns closer to Chinese maritime routes. The world was watching and in Beijing, the Politburo seethed. The missile had been a show of strength. Instead, it had become a global humiliation.
***
Weeks passed, and the world grew increasingly uneasy. Matsuda sat in the command chair of Hamana, his thoughts focused on the events that had unfolded. The Hamana had seen countless patrols, but none like this. The diplomatic fallout, the military build-up—it all felt different. The stakes were higher, and the next move could ignite a much larger conflict.
And the next missile that left its silo? There was no certainty. No guarantees.
He glanced over at Murphy, his executive officer, who was silently observing the display of incoming data. The silence between them was not just professional—it was personal. Both knew the stakes, and neither had to say what was already clear.
“The world is changing,” Matsuda muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Murphy’s gaze met his, and in her eyes, he saw the weight of it all—the tension, the uncertainty, the fragility of peace.
“It’s already changed, skipper,” she replied quietly.
A long moment passed before Matsuda’s voice broke the silence once again. “Are we prepared for whatever comes next though, Katie?”
“Yes,” she responded, her tone resolute, but there was a flicker of something darker in her eyes. “Skipper we are, but are they?”
The words hung in the air, unspoken but understood. The next missile, whether it was from a submarine or any other platform, could be the spark that set the world on fire.
And with each passing day, that spark seemed to get closer.
No one would know if it would be stopped.