Storm clouds churned angrily over the South Pacific, an ominous herald of nature’s fury. He hadn’t seen weather like this in decades, and certainly not in the height of summer. The northeastern sky burned with an eerie orange glow. Even the clouds had an unnatural hue to them, and it was setting everyone’s nerves on edge. They were drifting menacingly westward, moving eerily fast for that time of year. Even the winds from that direction howled like a foul tempest, carrying an impossibly heavy weight of foreboding. Sheets of rain coming in fits and starts, lashing the ocean in torrents, as though the heavens themselves were attempting to cleanse the waters of some approaching turmoil.
HMNZS Canterbury, never graceful, cut like a sledgehammer as she ploughed resolutely through the churning waves just south of the Solomon Islands. Her sharp bow carving a resolute path through the turbulent waters leaving behind her a frothy iridescent white wake. Pushed out by her much larger stern, the wake dissolved rapidly in the chaos of the sea and the dark stormy night air. Commander Caleb Robinson stood alone on the bridge wing, his hands gripping the cold steel railing. Not for this first time this voyage, he was staring out at the restless horizon, his mind heavy with the realisation that political tensions in the region were nearing a breaking point.
The Chinese had been moving ships, both military and civilian into the region for months now, ever since they had completed their long overdue upgrades to Honiara’s port facility. Although it had taken much longer than anyone expected, this had very likely been their intention all along, the start of a strategic power play in the region. Everyone knew that port deal had been a farce! No naval base they assured us, well, look how that turned out! Caleb thought. Now China had strategically positioned themselves dangerously close to both Australia and New Zealand. The later of course having the greater concern of an ever encroaching fishing fleet which seemed to pop up like locusts with monotonous regularity in the waters of the southern oceans.
Caleb was a keen follower of world politics, as most military men are. He knew that the US wasn’t going to back down on this one. It was a power move by the Chinese and a very clear slap in the face of the American’s. Not to mention the clear threat to America’s influence in the region. President Ellen Carter was desperate for a second term and the Republican party was desperate to keep hold of their power. Her latest campaign slogan was something about ‘drawing lines in the sand’, and she’d proved that when she’d vowed to commit more forces to the Iranian conflict in the hopes of bringing that war to a swifter end just the week before.
She was also desperate to prove just how well all of her predecessor’s infrastructure projects and initiatives had been over the last eleven years. It had taken time and a lot of money, but America’s own version of the belt and road initiative was starting to bear fruit. Caleb’s own country had certainly benefitted from it. Now it was time to pay the piper, as the old saying goes.
Canterbury had been on station watching over the build-up of the U.S. and Chinese fleets for over a month already, an now even Australia was getting involved. Caleb had a report that a Hobart class destroyer and a Hunter class frigate had appeared on radar sometime during the night. Compliments had of course been given, but Caleb wished, and not for the first time, that big brother from across the ditch would keep their nose out of it. They were all sailing on a knife edge, diplomacy was working thus far, but beneath that so very thin veneer, something was building.
This most recent build-up of naval activity was being fuelled by China’s latest round of ridiculous territorial claims, this time over the Solomans and their desperate hunger for the island chain’s strategic and economic resources. It was the same old story with them, throw a loud enough tantrum and hopefully the world backs down so they can get their way. This time the U.S. wasn’t having it, China had gone too far and currently the United States and China were locked in a high-stakes standoff over control of the region, their warships circling each other like hungry wolves, just waiting for the first sign of weakness.
So far though, both fleets appeared to be keeping to distances negotiated by their respective diplomats. Neither side wanted to be the one to throw the first punch, but it was coming. Sure, there was a little sabre rattling. China flexing its muscle, having deployed two of their type 004 carriers and the U.S. of course, responded in kind. For the second time in a little less than a century, fighters from the USS Enterprise were playing ‘cat and mouse’ games with enemy planes over the Solomans. Proving just how cyclical history can be.
***
The day before yesterday, an earthquake had rocked the island of Guadalcanal. Its epicentre lay buried beneath the dense jungle to the northwest of Honiara, registering as a subterranean event. By seismic standards, it had been relatively modest in magnitude, but its effects were strangely localized, confined almost surgically to that specific area. What defied explanation was the series of aftershocks which followed hours later, rippling outward across the island chain. These secondary tremors caused widespread damage, collapsing already fragile infrastructure, severing power lines, and leaving much of the region in darkness. The islands’ already precarious supply of fresh water had become critically low along with medical and food supplies, leaving the population in dire straits.
For a small nation like the Solomons, this was more than a disaster—it was a crisis of existential proportions. Yet, the true nature of the event remained shrouded in uncertainty. Official statements from their government attributed the incident to a "malfunction" at a recently constructed, Chinese-run power plant. The explanation, however, was as unconvincing as it was vague. The idea that a simple ‘accident’ could produce such seismic chaos seemed laughable, especially given the precision with which the initial quake had struck. Multiple aftershocks, which had come hours later, crippled local infrastructure even further.
What little information was available only deepened the mystery. Satellite imagery showed no obvious structural damage at the power plant itself, yet the streets of Honiara lay in ruins and reports from locals described flashes of light in the sky and a deep, resonant hum which had preceded the quake—a sound that some likened to the deep bellied roaring of an ancient monster of local legend. More troubling still was the eerie absence of wildlife in the area. Birds and animals, normally abundant in the lush jungles, had seemingly vanished, leaving an unnatural silence in their wake.
Whispers of suspicion began to spread. To many, the involvement of the Chinese government was more than coincidental. For years, Beijing had been deepening its influence in the Pacific, pouring money and resources into the region in exchange for strategic footholds. The Solomons were no exception, having signed controversial agreements with China that included the construction of this very power plant. Now, with the earthquake and its inexplicable aftermath, few believed the official narrative.
The world’s media, never ones to let the truth get in the way of a good story, was abuzz with speculation. Was this an accident, or something more sinister? A covert weapons test perhaps? An experiment gone awry? The hollowness of the Solomon government’s statement did little to reassure the international community. As far as the world was concerned, China was up to something—and whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good for the people of the Solomon Islands and the fragile stability of the region.
By the next day, grim news began to filter out of the islands. Local reports spoke of mass casualties and the emergence of strange, inexplicable illnesses. The hospital in Honiara was inundated, their limited resources stretched well beyond capacity. The death toll was climbing and emergency services were struggling to make any headway, too many of the city streets were choked with debris and desperate citizens seeking aid. To make matters worse, the port—recently upgraded at great expense by China—had been abruptly closed off. Officially, this was a decision made by local authorities, but the heavy presence of heavily armed Chinese security personnel patrolling the area told a different story. The closure had also severed the island’s main avenue for vital supplies and humanitarian aid.
Adding to the unease, the government had declared a no-fly zone over the entire island, effectively cutting it off from the outside world. The justification for such drastic measures was vague at best, and no one could say with certainty whether the decisions were truly being made by the Solomons' government or if Beijing was quietly pulling the strings. The whole situation reeked of suspicion. Yet, for now, the fragile web of diplomacy dictated that official channels and niceties be observed, no matter how hollow they felt.
On the international stage, however, there was little ambiguity. The prevailing consensus was damning; China was responsible! Whether through negligence or intent, Beijing’s meddling had unleashed a disaster of catastrophic proportions. Official theories were as wild as the ones circling in the media. Whatever the cause, the outcome was undeniable—the region was now an even more volatile flashpoint in the growing rivalry between the two Pacific superpowers.
Escalating tensions were palpable, each side blaming the other and rattling sabres in increasingly overt displays of hostility. The Solomon Islands had become an unwilling stage for a high-stakes confrontation. It was a powder keg, and every new development seemed to bring it closer to ignition.
New Zealand, caught in the crossfire, found itself thrust into a role it had neither sought nor desired. With the fleets of both superpowers shadowboxing on the horizon and neither willing to make the first move, the responsibility of providing aid and maintaining a semblance of order had fallen to the New Zealanders. Officially neutral, they were there to act as a buffer, a supposed referee to keep the peace between two adversaries teetering on the edge of open conflict.
Initially, Caleb’s task was to navigate this volatile situation, ensuring that Canterbury’s mission—peacekeeping and now, humanitarian aid—did not spark further conflict, which was exactly why New Zealand had been chosen for this task to begin with, their reputation on the world stage as even handed peacekeepers was well known. And it was for that very reason the NZ government had selected the multipurpose vessel, instead of a more heavily armed ship for this duty. A fitting swansong for a very long career of dedicated service, before she returned home for her well overdue official decommissioning.
Yet as he gazed at the fiery horizon, streaked with the first rays of light from a sun that seemed to burn too brightly these days, an unease gnawed at him. It wasn’t the sharp, immediate fear of possible combat or the adrenaline-fueled rush of danger—it was something deeper, darker, rooted in the most primal corners of his psyche. The kind of instinct that whispered warnings before the storm, before the predator struck. His skin prickled, a cascade of goosebumps spreading across his exposed forearms as if the very air around him carried a weight, an unseen charge.
The thought that he was here, in this stormy, sweltering hell, instead of back home celebrating his son’s twelfth birthday, only added to the sour taste in his mouth. It wasn’t just regret—it was guilt, the heavy, cloying kind that seemed to settle into his bones and mix with the stale exhaustion of too many days and nights spent on edge. He could picture his boy now, surrounded by his friends, trying to smile, trying to be the brave and strong little man that he was, as he blew out the candles, pretending not to notice that his daddy wasn’t there.
And for what? For this endless game of cat and mouse bullshit? Out here, amongst this maze of islands alive with malice, where the air was too thick and the shadows too long? It was as though the sea itself resented their very presence, every subtle rustle of the waves lapping at the hull, a reminder that they didn’t belong. His unease twisted into a knot in his stomach, a growing certainty that they were being watched, hunted even, by something more than the situation they’d been sent out here to face. And now they were sailing further in, deeper and he was worried.
Caleb knew the truth—this was no longer a peacekeeping mission. The peace they were meant to uphold was as fragile as glass, already splintering under the weight of suspicion and aggression. They weren’t there to mediate but to stand as unwilling witnesses to the beginning of something far larger and far darker. Every moment felt like the calm before a storm that could not be contained. And Caleb had the sinking feeling that when the storm broke, no one—not the Solomons, not China, not even New Zealand—would escape unscathed.
***
The sun was now fully cresting the horizon, casting long, amber rays over the restless sea. As the light stretched across the water, Caleb felt a strange weight settle on his chest. The dawn brought precious little clarity, and he couldn’t shake that gnawing certainty that something significant was about to happen. Unease clung tightly to him like the salty morning air. Decades of experience had taught him to trust his instincts, and right now, those instincts were screaming at him to be wary, trouble was just over that horizon.
His orders had come in early that morning: stand by to move in and render humanitarian aid, and, if possible, conduct a preliminary investigation into what had actually happened on Guadalcanal. On the surface, it seemed straightforward. Canterbury had undertaken many humanitarian missions through her long career. But Caleb knew better—this wasn’t routine, it was out the gate!. For one, Canterbury wasn’t outfitted for an extended relief mission. They could provide assistance, sure, but the ship wasn’t stocked for a long-term operation, and the situation on the ground sounded more like a disaster zone than a standard aid drop. Worse still, their role as peacekeepers didn’t make them investigators. They were sailing into a storm of the unknown, of intrigue and clandestine agendas, armed with little more than goodwill and the vague hope of cooler heads prevailing.
The personnel on board only underscored the precariousness of their task. The infantry platoon infantryman and their accompanying engineers from the army were capable enough, but they were few in number and not equipped for the kind of complexities this mission might demand. The medical staff, while skilled, would be hard-pressed to handle the scale of illness and injury already being reported, and Canterbury’s medical facilities were nowhere near the standard of the new Guardian class. Even their NH-90 helicopter—currently being prepped for flight on the deck—was a benefit more in theory than practice. It would allow them to access difficult terrain, sure, but it wasn’t going to solve the deeper problems plaguing the island.
Caleb could already see how thinly they would be stretched. Between the needs of their peacekeeping mission, the constant watchfulness required in these increasingly tense waters, and the strain on his own crew, there was little room for error. Resources would run out quickly if they weren’t careful, and the ever-present spectre of escalation between China and the U.S. loomed ever-present in the background.
He took a long, steadying breath, his eyes scanning the deck as the air force crew worked to ready the NH-90 for flight. The hum of activity was a small comfort—it was good to see his people focused and capable, even as the enormity of the situation bore down on them. The faint echo of laughter from the crew around him reminded him that, for now, they were still just sailors, kiwi kids on a mission, just doing their jobs as best they can. But the horizon ahead wasn’t just lit by the sunrise—it was heavy with the weight of the unknown.
Every decision he made in the coming days would be a balancing act, walking a tightrope over a chasm of uncertainty. One spark—just one miscalculation—and the precarious equilibrium they were tasked with maintaining would collapse entirely. It wasn’t just his ship, his crew, or even this mission at stake. Caleb had the grim realization that they were standing on the fault line of a much larger confrontation. The world was shifting beneath their feet, and he could only hope they weren’t about to be swallowed whole.
"Captain, Commo!" a voice crackled over his personal walkie.
Reaching to his shoulder and thumbing the mike button, he replied. “Go ahead Commo.”
"Captain, Commo, we’ve just received the intel reports we’ve been waiting for from Wellington. Satellite coverage over the area shows no change in either of the fleet dispositions and the islands are clear of any military traffic. The situation on the ground appears to be contained, we have been ordered to proceed."
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He didn’t respond immediately. Contained, what did that even mean in these crazy days? Caleb knew better than to take such assurances at face value. Their initial tasking had been simple, now events had spiralled, and the stakes were higher than ever! The whole world was watching, and now Canterbury was more than just a ship commanded by a small town Taranaki boy; she was a symbol of New Zealand’s all too precarious role in the Pacific. The ramifications, should anything go wrong, were unimaginable.
***
Caleb issued the appropriate orders and HMNZS Canterbury moved slowly in towards the islands. The ship’s engines hummed steadily as she approached the infamous waters of Iron Bottom Sound. The historical significance of the area was not lost on him. As a student of naval history, he was acutely aware of the ferocious battles fought here during the second world war. This particular patch of sea had claimed many ships and many more lives, earning its grim moniker. It was a graveyard and a memorial to all those who left there and Caleb bowed his head in the solemn acknowledgement of it.
What it must have been like? He wondered to himself. The battles fought here had been immense, today, it was a different kind of battlefield, one where politics, intrigue and technology replaced cannon and steel, but it was no less deadly. And with that chilling thought, his focus returned to the task at hand.
On the bridge, his crew moved methodically to carry out his orders. Their routines were honed by years of practiced experience and service, yet nothing could quell the uneasiness in the air. Something about this whole situation still nagged at him, something about this earthquake, about this whole mess was just off—something felt wrong, and his gut twisted into knots.
He left the wing and went to stand beside the helm, his eyes scanning the horizon, as much a reflex as a duty. They were now approaching the area along the coast where the earthquake had apparently struck. Topside, various relief teams were making ready to deploy. The helo had just taken off with a load of engineers and supplies for one of the neighbouring islands and the boat crews were making ready to lower the two landing craft, so the army could deploy with more supplies and equipment.
It was at that very moment, that the uneasy quiet was irrevocably shattered.
"Captain!" came the sharp voice of his radar operator. "We’ve got an anomaly, starboard, about 12 nautical miles. Surface contact coming in from behind the Chinese fleet and moving fast."
Caleb’s hand tightened on the console. "Show me."
The radar operator, a young leading seaman named Jacob, adjusted the screen. The flickering radar plot filled the display with jagged green lines. The contact was moving with unexpected speed for a surface vessel. It didn’t fit any of the usual shipping patterns or local fishing boats and, it was headed straight for them.
"Confirmed, definitely not a civilian ship," The camera operator called out. "Definitely a warship, about the size of a corvette, maybe a small frigate. I think it’s one of the Chinese, but their paint scheme is a little off and they’re not showing their colours, it’s definitely coming from their side though."
Caleb frowned. The Chinese fleet had adhered to their boundaries thus far, engaging only in low-level posturing. A sudden, aggressive maneuver like this was not completely unheard of, but given the way the Chinese had acquitted themselves in the stand-off thus far, it was a little out of character.
“Easy sailor, They’re not going to do anything, they’re just trying to scare us.” Caleb rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder, in the hope of providing him with a little support. It seemed to work, but for Caleb, his heart still skipped a beat, he wasn’t entirely sure if he had just lied to the young man. Regardless, he still had a job to do.
"Action Stations!" he called out. " Set condition Zulu throughout the ship, Damage parties to stand-by. Commo, signal the U.S. fleet commander. Tell them to hold their position, be polite, but do not ask and send contact report to Wellington, inform them we may be under attack!"
The screeching sound of the boatswain’s pipe whistled the shrill cry of battle stations through the ship for the first time in anger and the crew leapt to their duty.
"Weapons to standby! Keep the camera on target, I want to know what we’re dealing with!"
The bridge crew moved with practiced urgency. The ship’s weapons officers, stationed at their terminals, were already on high alert. Within seconds, the tactical display came alive—red dots forming around the fast moving target.
"Captain, Typhoon is locked on and tracking! Still out of range." the weapons officer, Lieutenant Kate Miller, said, her voice calm but laced with tension. "Incoming awfully fast though."
“Hostile inbound… Missile detected! Track ID 001, bearing 273 degrees, range 12 nautical miles, speed Mach 5. Assess as hostile! It’s tracking our helo!"
“Countermeasures now! Weapons released! Engage with seewhiz!” Caleb ordered, but it was too late, at that speed the agile NH-90 didn’t stand a chance. One second it was there, the next it was replaced with a bright yellow and orange fireball. They had barely had enough time to try to evade before they were dead, fire and debris falling to the cold waters below. “Fuck!” Caleb Whispered.
The bridge crew was stunned, standing there in disbelief. Each and every one of them knew the expectations of their service, knew the possible ramifications of their joining the military. This very visceral reminder of that fact was far too sobering.
When the sonar operator’s voice cut through the room, it almost felt like a reprieve, but that reprieve was short lived. "Sub Surface Contact! Bearing 142 degrees. Oh shit! Torpedo launch detected. Same bearing, closing fast, estimate speed at 50knots—impact in 47 seconds."
Time slowed as adrenaline surged through Caleb’s veins and his mind raced, what the hell? That’s behind us! He screamed internally, What the hell is going on here? But he didn’t have time to mull over the possible implications of that. Instinct and training fuelled by that adrenaline boost took over.
"Evasive manoeuvres! Hard to port! All ahead Flank!" he barked, hoping to cut the distance between Canterbury and the islands, in the vain hope of losing the torpedo in the shallower waters.
The ship groaned as her engines roared into life, whining slowly up to full military power. Her twin screws churned the water at her stern into a frothy white mess of chaos before they finally gained purchase and started to propel the big girl forward. Penny Colinson, the pretty young redheaded helmsman from New Plymouth on her first voyage, her hands trembling, yanked the wheel over and the rudders locked into place. Canterbury veered sharply, her immense bulk shuddering under the stress of the maneuver.
The two landing craft being lowered by the cranes either side the ship’s big flat superstructure swung precariously, slamming back into the hull and adding a weird counterweight to the ship’s momentum. Canterbury wasn’t built for this kind of action, and the bridge crew collectively held their breath.
For a moment, the only sounds they heard were the straining twisting hull and the pulse of the ship’s engines pushing her as hard as they could through the water. The bow thrusters helped, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough.
Caleb’s eyes were now fixed on the sonar screen. The torpedo had locked onto them, and it was getting closer.
"High-speed wake in the water, red 146" screamed the port lookout.
"Report!" Caleb demanded, looking down at his sonar operator.
“It’s acquired us and is homing, Boss!” Petty Officer Josh Tran said quickly. "Shit it’s fast! We won’t be able to outrun it at this speed."
Caleb’s throat tightened. He would have loved to berate the man for stating the obvious, but what would be the point? Caleb had had a long career in the navy and very well knew the realities of naval warfare—once a modern torpedo locked onto a target, evading it was nearly impossible. Especially in this big old tub! He thought. Besides, they had served together a long time and Josh was a friend. That torpedo was suspiciously quick though, far faster than any he’d ever seen or heard of before. So fast, they were out of time and getting dangerously close to being out of options.
"Deploy countermeasures!" He shouted.
"Deploying!" Lieutenant Miller responded, her fingers dancing over the controls. The ship’s minimal and very rudimentary anti-torpedo system engaged, sending out a series of decoy buoys that popped to life in the water, designed to confuse the torpedo’s guidance systems.
But Caleb knew it wouldn’t be enough. The distance reader on the screen counted down menacingly, he was watching it closely with great fascination and it was at that very moment that his mind decided to remind him that he’d always known it wouldn’t be enough. He’d had this argument years before when he had been given this command, while Canterbury was going through her final refit before retirement. He had said that there should have been more torpedo protection, but the brass had told him at the time that it was too expensive, and she would never need it anyway. Funny the things you remember in times like these, sometimes being right isn’t the best thing!
"Thirty seconds to impact!" Josh called out, bringing the captain’s attention back to the problem at hand.
The bridge felt like a vacuum, the tension as suffocating as the sudden tightness of his now sweat stained blue uniform shirt, already damp from the tropical humidity. Caleb’s mind continued to race, as the seconds stretched out into impossibly long moments, trying to calculate options that he didn’t have, trying to think through every possibility. Once again, his grip tightened on the console in front of him.
"Reverse your rudder, hard to starboard!" He called.
Even though she was visibly shaking, Penny responded instantly, spinning the wheel. For a moment the ship held its course, then suddenly, with the ship’s engines still roaring at full power and the turn assisted by the thrusters, Canterbury lurched towards the other direction. But, as the ship struggled to execute the evasive maneuver, Caleb knew that it still wasn’t going to be enough to avoid the incoming torpedo. Now it was all about the countermeasures and praying to whoever might be listening, that they would work, knowing full well that they wouldn’t.
"Fifteen seconds," Josh called, his voice cracking under the immense pressure of the helplessness he was feeling.
Caleb could see it on the sonar, closing in with terrifying precision. Every second felt like an eternity.
"Brace for impact," he ordered, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He gripped the railing harder and tried to mentally prepare himself.
“Five… four…” Josh started counting down. “Three… two….”
Canterbury jolted violently when the torpedo slammed into the hull with an earth-shattering thud. The whole world went sideways, as the warhead impacted, and the shockwave of the ensuing explosion thrusted the stern of the 9000 ton warship briefly out of the water. Those personnel out on the flightdeck, or those trying to wrestle the landing craft back on board, were thrown every which way, and in many cases overboard. The lucky ones were thrown well clear, some weren’t that lucky. Those crew still harnessed to safety gear didn’t fair much better, many of them were slammed against nearby bulk heads causing severe injuries both internal and external. Some were killed instantly, crushed by the wildly swinging landing craft.
On the bridge, the next thing they heard was the terrifying sound of tearing metal screaming through the length of the ship, followed by the sounds of pressure doors releasing and pipes bursting. Fire surged up from somewhere below decks, in some cases engulfing those who had survived the initial impact, and a fair few who hadn’t. The big ship lurched to the side, as it crashed back into the water several seconds later, sucking several of those poor souls trying desperately to swim in the other direction, down with it.
Across the bridge, crew members were thrown from their feet, alarms screaming, lights flickering as acrid smoke began to fill the large space. Canterbury may have been called a warship, but she was not built for combat!
Caleb’s chest tightened as he fought to maintain his balance. He had slammed his head into the console when the torpedo struck, and he was now bleeding profusely from a cut just above his temple. "Damage report!" he shouted, his voice raw and strained, he could feel the darkness of unconsciousness approaching, along with the bile boiling up his throat, but he pushed through it. His crew was in danger, and he couldn’t afford the weakness. Besides with the way the ship was groaning, he probably didn’t have to be awake long anyway, death was coming soon enough.
"Hull breach starboard side aft. Flooding in multiple compartments," came an immediate response from somewhere behind him. "Hull integrity compromised! The impact buckled the well door and it’s flooding quickly! Watertight doors have burst all over and fires are raging in the engineering spaces!"
"Redirect all power to emergency pumps and systems," Caleb barked, as he collapsed into his chair, feeling a little less dizzy now that he wasn’t moving around so much. "Get medical and damage control teams to the starboard side. Evacuate all non-essential personnel from those spaces to the hanger deck and get the life boats ready! Fire is the main priority, we can fix the dents later."
The crew moved with purpose and efficiency, even under fire. Training, discipline, and the will to survive were their guiding forces now. In this moment, nothing else mattered. The bridge was in barely organised chaos. Canterbury wasn’t sinking, yet, but it was close! Tran was dead, his skull caved in from where it impacted on the edge of his sonar console. Penny also wasn’t moving, she was just laying peacefully on the deck beside the helm, if it wasn’t for the odd way her head and shoulder were wedged against it, he would have sworn she was just asleep, and Caleb took a moment to fully absorb that fact before the next problem struck. He would mourn them later, if he survived.
“Hostile inbound… Missile detected! Track ID 002, bearing 276 degrees, range 11 nautical miles, speed Mach 5. Assess as hostile. This one’s coming for us! Initiating counter measures. Impact in 15 seconds!"
Seldom used proximity alarms outside of training drills blared into life with an air piercing scream, and the bridge erupted into a frenzy of activity once more. Automated countermeasures sprang to life, launching chaff, flares, and more decoy buoys into the water to confuse the incoming threat. The Close-In Weapon System mounts on the roof and the bow roared to life automatically, their rapid-fire cannons spitting streams of deadly bright red tracer rounds. The rounds were so fast and so close together, they looked like tongues of flame, trying desperately to intercept the incoming missile.
“What the fuck!” Caleb roared, finally losing his cool for a brief moment, the exasperation creeping in insidiously, but it didn’t last. With his heart pounding in his chest, he stared daggers at the radar screen, watching the blip of this latest threat. This wasn’t a standard attack; this was a coordinated surface and subsurface attack! It was precision warfare and there was fuck all he could do about it. "Will the see-whiz kill it?" he asked, his eyes darting to the weapons officer.
Kate looked up momentarily, all of the blood draining from her face and shook her head. "Too late Boss, too fast, both see-whiz are trying but it’s so fast they can’t get a good enough lock."
He wanted to throw something, he wanted to scream! He wanted a lot of things in that moment, but all he could do was look out of the windows on the bridge. He thought again about his boy and his wife and whispered his love for them. For a split second, he could have sworn that he saw that missile, but it was just his imagination, not at that insane speed.
"All hands, brace for impact!" Kate called, her voice sharp.
But there was no time, this missile was no ordinary projectile. Traveling at over Mach 5, it carried advanced guidance systems designed to outmanoeuvre the traditional and somewhat outdated defences aboard Canterbury. It weaved through the decoys with terrifying ease, its trajectory unwavering as it homed in on the ship's port side. With the 9000 ton warship presenting such a large target, it wasn’t likely to miss anyway. It was like hitting the side of the proverbial barn. The world lurched violently for a second time in as many minutes and Caleb was thrown unceremoniously from his chair, his body slamming against the same console that had killed Tran. Lights flickered, noxious smoke burned eyes and throats, and alarms still screamed.
The impact was cataclysmic. The missile struck just above the waterline, detonating with a thunderous explosion which threatened to rip the ship apart. A blinding fireball erupted at the point of impact, the following shockwave shattering reinforced steel bulkheads and sending shards of twisted metal hurtling through the air like lethal projectiles. Anyone caught in those spaces were killed instantly either shredded by the white hot shrapnel or crushed like a ragdoll by the shockwave. The sound was deafening—a combination of the missile’s speed, the explosion’s force, and the anguished groan of the warship absorbing the fatal wound.
The missile’s passage left a second gaping hole in the ship’s hull, exposing even more of its inner compartments to the churning sea. Flames licked hungrily at the breached sections. Overhead piping ruptured, spilling steam and Canterbury’s vital fluids into the chaos, while secondary explosions rippled through the vessel as fuel lines and then fuel stores ignited. A column of black smoke billowed into the air, marking the ship’s location like a funeral pyre.
The shockwave caused the bridge window glass to shatter, The bridge was a scene of carnage—alarms shrieked, lights flickered, and acrid smoke still pouring into the confined space, started to filter out through the now open windows. Below decks, the situation was worse. Flooding was immediate and uncontrollable. Seawater poured through the breaches in torrents, filling compartments and dragging everything in its path into the depths. The ship began to list to starboard, the ocean rapidly claiming it inch by inch.
"Damage report!" Caleb shouted futilely, or maybe just out of habit, holding onto the bloodied console for support. Something warm and slimy brushed up against his finger, but he refused to acknowledge it. The engine room was flooded, propulsion offline, and power systems dead. Without engines, the ship was a sitting duck, blind and vulnerable to any follow-up strikes, not that any were needed. This version of the Canterbury was well and truly done, her days now over.
On the darkened bridge, Caleb barked out his final orders over the chaos. “Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!”
Crew members who were able scrambled to deploy lifeboats and rafts, doing what they could for those who couldn’t. Their movements hurried but disciplined, even in the face of overwhelming terror, some hard decisions were made that day. The last thing Caleb remembered before passing out was the feeling of being dragged.
As the surviving sailors leaped into the cold, unforgiving sea, they could still hear the groans of the dying warship behind them—a sound that would haunt them forever. The missile had done its job with brutal efficiency and the ship sank rapidly beneath the waves. But the HMNZS Canterbury wasn’t just any ship; she was a symbol of New Zealand’s commitment to peace in the region and now it had joined so many others at the bottom of the Sound.