The night sky stretched endlessly above, a sprawling canopy of stars muted by the ethereal glow of a waning moon. Its pale light rippled over the calm waters of the Pacific, the island of Guadalcanal loomed ahead—a place haunted by the ghosts of battles both recent and past. The waters remained eerily still, their surface reflecting the celestial expanse above, as if the sea itself held its breath.
Breaking the tranquil scene, the sleek, black silhouette of the Royal Australian Navy’s Virginia-class submarine, HMAS Vampire, emerged stealthily from the depths. Her hull, glistening with beads of seawater, shimmered faintly in the dim moonlight as she breached the surface with stealthy precision. The imposing vessel lingered just long enough to release her precious cargo.
Hatches opened with mechanical efficiency, revealing black-clad figures moving like shadows, their faces obscured by rebreathers and streaks of dark warpaint. From concealed compartments, they retrieved the sled and donned their gear, every action swift and methodical. Communication conducted solely through subtle hand gestures, their silence blending seamlessly with the faint surge of water against the hull and the whisper of the tropical breeze.
The hatches sealed with a low metallic hiss, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the vast, cold silence of the sea. Inside, the team signalled their readiness with practiced gestures, each movement deliberate and calm. Figures clad in black lay flat on the sled as it rested gently against the hull, their gear meticulously arranged to blend seamlessly into the night. Moments later, Vampire, like her namesake, slipped silently beneath the surface, her obsidian silhouette disappearing into the inky depths. Only faint ripples remained to mark her passage, and even these quickly dissolved into the ocean's embrace.
Just below the surface, the sled disengaged from Vampire's hull with a muffled clunk, gliding away under the propulsion of its silent electric motor. The faint hum of the sled was barely perceptible, lost in the ambient noise of the deep. Onboard was a mixed detachment of Australian SASR and New Zealand SAS operators, men whose lives had been spent preparing for missions exactly like this. Sergeant Callum Blake of the Australian SASR checked the GPS device in his gloved hand, its dim glow illuminating his rebreather mask for the briefest of moments. A curt hand signal followed—200 meters to the target beach.
The operators retrieved their last pieces of gear and readied themselves for the final swim to shore. Blake tapped a button on the sled’s console, sending its GPS coordinates to his device before activating the auto-sink protocol. The sled shuddered faintly and began its slow descent, disappearing into the murky abyss to await their return.
Minutes later, Captain Aaron Matthews of the New Zealand SAS surfaced, his low-light-activated ACOG scope scanning the coastline ahead. Through the green haze of the optic, the beach appeared deserted—a ribbon of pale sand bordered by an imposing wall of dense jungle. Matthews lowered his rifle and gave the signal to move. One by one, the team emerged from the water, their movements careful and deliberate, flippers slapping softly against their sides as they waded ashore. The wet sand swallowing their steps, the tide already erasing the evidence of their landing.
Twenty meters inland, beneath the concealment of the jungle canopy, the team paused. In the cover of the dense undergrowth, they laced on boots, carefully burying the discarded swim gear and marking the location with a subtle arrangement of sticks and foliage. Blake retrieved a compact satellite communicator, his fingers moving quickly as he keyed in a prearranged sequence.
A thousand miles away, in the dimly lit operations room in Sydney, a single word appeared on a monitor: Bondi. The reply was near-instantaneous: Received. Proceed.
“We’re good to go,” Blake muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
The team adjusted their packs, weapons now held at the ready and slipped further into the jungle. Matthews took point, his M4 sweeping methodically through the shadows. The rhythmic crash of waves fading behind as the dense vegetation closed in around them, every step a battle against the jungle's relentless grip.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint calls of nocturnal creatures. The team moved with the precision of seasoned operators, their extensive training evident in every fluid motion. At pre-arranged intervals, they stopped briefly, blending seamlessly into their surroundings so that Blake could send the check-in signals, maintaining their fragile lifeline to command.
As dawn broke, golden light filtered through the canopy, painting the jungle in muted hues. They had made good progress, but the hardest part of the journey lay ahead. Cresting a rise, the target came into view: a sprawling facility nestled in a natural valley. Floodlights swept the perimeter, illuminating warehouses, camouflaged radar dishes, and mobile missile launch platforms. The sheer scale of the operation was staggering.
“Shit,” Matthews whispered, his voice tight. “That’s not just a power plant.”
Corporal Edwards of the NZSAS broke away, positioning himself beneath an overhang higher up the valley. He slung his long-rifle into place, peering through the scope as he began cataloguing the site. Patrols moved in disciplined pairs, dogs at their sides. Vehicles rumbled intermittently, their paths predictable but methodical.
“Overwatch in position,” Edwards reported. “Clear line of sight on the main courtyard and buildings, can’t see the east gate so be careful around there. Patrols rotating every seven minutes with dogs. Vehicle traffic limited to the south entrance.”
Blake and Matthews crept to the valley floor, carrying an array of surveillance equipment. A compact drone, launched with a flick of Blake’s wrist, ascended into the dawn sky. Its camera scanned the site, feeding live thermal data to Blake’s wrist-mounted display. Along the ridges, Bravo Team installed long-range cameras camouflaged within rocky outcrops. Solar-powered and linked to satellites, the devices would provide round-the-clock surveillance for weeks.
By midday, the team had set seismic sensors along access roads, concealed directional microphones aimed at the control building, and completed a full perimeter assessment. Every detail was logged, every piece of tech meticulously hidden.
“Sensors live. Surveillance transmitting. Ready to exfil,” Matthews reported.
As they retraced their steps, Edwards’ voice crackled over the comms. “Hold up. Patrol inbound. Danger Close! Single guard, no dog. Take cover.” His finger slipping from the trigger guard to lightly caress the trigger, just in case.
Blake and Matthews froze, sinking into the shadows. The guard paused, lingering by a tree mere meters from their position before continuing on.
“All clear,” Edwards said softly, moving his finger back onto the guard.
The team regrouped, retreating to the jungle’s edge. Over the next two days, they rotated between positions, monitoring the facility and ensuring their equipment remained undetected. Patrols came close but never found the hidden tech. The team’s preparation had been flawless.
On the third night, under the cover of darkness, the operators slipped away back into the jungle, leaving no evidence of their passing and returned to the extraction point. The sled surfaced silently, and within moments, they were aboard Vampire. As the submarine descended once more, the facility remained oblivious to the invisible eyes now tracking its every move.
***
In shadowy offices on Pipitea Street, the faint glow of computer screens and the hum of the tired air conditioning units filled the otherwise darkened spaces as analysts worked tirelessly. Data had streamed in from various feeds set by the ground team for days, including high-resolution satellite imagery and intercepted communications. The site in question was unmistakably a power plant—at least on the surface. However, given its size, it only seemed to be operating at around ten percent of its potential capacity.
The steady movement of trucks in and out of the installation wasn’t inherently suspicious either, although the sheer volume was intriguing to say the least. It was the presence of advanced radar installations and surface-to-air missile batteries which told the real story, hinting at something far more complex—and far more ominous—than an ordinary energy facility even a Chinese one.
During that time, Sinclair and his top team scrutinized every inch of the facility, cross-referencing it with other known installations and analysing the patterns of activity. They sifted through every pixel, every scrap of data, every intercepted fragment of communication. Despite their efforts, the true nature of the site remained shrouded in mystery. They knew it wasn’t what it appeared to be, but the question of what it actually was gnawed at them like an itch they couldn’t scratch.
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When they finally pieced together enough fragments to form a cohesive enough picture—albeit a tentative one—NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair carried the findings to the Beehive.
In the Prime Minister’s office, the atmosphere was tense but composed. Miriama Kahu sat at the head of the table, flanked by MacNielty, Harper, Jamison and a few of her other advisors, her expression was unreadable but her eyes sharp.
“Well, Mr. Sinclair,” she began, although she understood the necessity, she had never liked the man, or what his department did and she struggled to keep her barely veiled contempt in check, folding her hands neatly on the table. “What do we know?”
Sinclair placed a thin dossier in front of her and began to speak, his tone measured but grave.
“Prime Minister, the facility in question is indeed operating as a power plant—at least superficially—but that is obviously a cover. Only a small fraction of the site is dedicated to energy production. The rest of the facility appears to be a heavily fortified military installation, but for what, we do not yet know. However, the radar systems and surface-to-air missile batteries are indicative of a defensive network designed to protect something significant.”
Miriama’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Significant in what way?”
Sinclair took a deep breath. “That’s the part we’re still trying to work out. The constant truck movements suggest high-value material transfers. Given the level of security and the infrastructure, it’s plausible this could be a staging ground for advanced weapons systems or even experimental technology. The placement aligns with broader regional activities we’ve been monitoring—specifically, the increased Chinese military presence in the Pacific sparking this recent crisis.”
The Prime Minister leaned back in her chair, processing the information. “And the evidence? Is it solid enough to bring to our allies?”
“Circumstantial at best I’m afraid, Prime Minister,” Sinclair admitted. “But the patterns and the assets involved paint a picture we can’t ignore. We’ll need more time to secure irrefutable proof, but I thought it prudent to bring this to your attention now.”
Miriama nodded thoughtfully. “I do appreciate that, what are your recommendations?”
“Twofold,” Sinclair replied. “First, we continue gathering intelligence—quietly. Second, we coordinate with our allies to establish a broader surveillance net. This isn’t just an Oceanic problem; it’s a regional one.”
“The infiltration team is still on station Ma’am, we could easily reinsert them.” Jamison interjected smoothly.
“That would certainly be a prudent move Prime Minister, we have no humint assets on the ground, connecting with locals and having the men in place should we need them further would be a good idea” Sinclair asserted.
Miriama sat in silence for a moment, her gaze distant but her focus unyielding. Finally, she nodded. “Proceed as you’ve outlined, General, Mr. Sinclair. Also, make sure we send everything we have to Canberra, it’s their men too, let’s make sure we keep them in the loop every step of the way and keep me updated on any new developments. If this facility is what we suspect, we’ll need to act decisively—but not without concrete proof.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.” Sinclair gathered his documents, as he and General Jamison prepared to leave.
As the door closed behind them, Miriama turned to her advisors. “Start drafting messages to Canberra and Washington. If Sinclair is right, this might just be the tip of the iceberg. We should also coordinate with London and Ottawa, our CANZUK allies and the Americans seem to be the only ones interested in helping us at this point. Let’s make sure they are also aware of everything we know.”
***
Later that same evening, after another short swim through the warm waters of the islands, five men emerged silently onto a secluded stretch of beach. Stripping out of their wetsuits, they revealed board shorts, t-shirts, and cheap sandals underneath. With practiced precision, they buried their wet gear and rebreathers beneath the sand, marking the spot with nothing more than a subtle arrangement of driftwood. From a distance, they could have been any group of tourists who’d spent the day snorkelling or diving.
Under the faint glow of island streetlights, they moved with casual ease, slipping into the pulse of the small town. Laughter and music spilled from open-air bars, mingling with the smell of grilled fish and salt air. The five men walked as if they had nowhere to be, their relaxed pace masking the acute awareness that hummed beneath the surface. Each step, each glance, was calculated but never obvious. The mantra of “Observe twice, never admire!” running through their minds.
They entered a bar just off the main strip, the kind of place filled with mismatched chairs, peeling paint, and locals mingling with sunburned tourists nursing overpriced beers. It was noisy, crowded, and perfect. No one gave the newcomers a second glance as they ordered beers at the bar and then weaved their way through the crush of bodies toward a table near the back.
Blake plopped down with an exaggerated sigh, pulling a crumpled map of the island from his pocket and spreading it over the sticky tabletop. “Goddamn, these dive spots better be worth the hype,” he said loudly, enough for nearby tables to hear, his thick Aussie accent drawing a few knowing nods from nearby tourists.
Matthews leaned back in his chair, sipping on a cold bottle of local beer and keeping a casual eye on the room. “Relax, mate. You’ll get your coral reefs and plenty of Nemo’s,” he muttered, his voice low enough for only the group to hear. “Keep it fucking casual.”
“Casual,” Blake scoffed under his breath. “Casual my arse. I’ve got sand in places it shouldn’t bloody be.” The others smirked but didn’t respond, their focus shifting to the task at hand.
Edwards leaned in, pretending to scrutinize the map. Beneath the table, his fingers worked quickly, assembling a compact listening device from components hidden in the pockets of his shorts. “We’ve got two locals at the bar chatting with what looks like an off-duty guard,” he murmured softly. “Watch your noise discipline. They’re three meters at our ten.”
“Copy,” Matthews replied, tilting his beer bottle casually toward the direction Edwards had indicated. From his vantage point, he caught sight of a man in a green shirt leaning heavily against the counter, speaking in rapid bursts to the bartender. His accent, heavily laced with Mandarin, carried over the din just enough to confirm what they’d already suspected. Chinese presence here wasn’t just significant—it was deeply embedded.
“Green shirt’s carrying,” Blake added, his eyes flicking up briefly. “Bulge under the left arm. He’s fuckin sloppy.”
“Good,” Matthews said quietly. “Makes him predictable. We’re tourists, boys. No drama tonight.”
The team ordered more drinks and pretended to argue over the map, drawing little attention beyond a passing glance or two. Beneath the table, Edwards activated the listening device, sliding it seamlessly into the pot of a nearby fern as he shifted in his seat.
“Ears are live,” he muttered, lifting his glass to his lips.
Their conversation drifted to mundane topics—surf spots, local food, exaggerated tales of sexual encounters—carefully maintaining their cover. Every so often, Matthews would scan the room, noting exits, potential threats, and anything which might seem out of place. The mission wasn’t just about the target facility anymore. Gathering intel on local collaborators and the rhythms of the island was equally critical.
After an hour, the group stood to leave, their movements unhurried. “Reckon we hit the south point tomorrow,” Matthews said loudly, folding the map and stuffing it into his pocket. “Supposed to be a bloody shipwreck down there. Looks decent enough.”
“Long as it’s not another snorkel shitshow,” Blake retorted, eliciting chuckles from a nearby table.
The five men drifted out into the humid night air, their laughter fading as they melted into the crowd. Behind them, the bar buzzed on, oblivious to the silent predators who had just passed through. It was going to be a long night, they planned on leaving ‘ears’ in several bars that evening, before searching out a hotel room to further cement their cover.
***
Late into the evening, with the hum of the city muffled by her office’s thick glass windows, Miriama’s phone buzzed sharply on her desk. She picked it up, her hand trembling just slightly from the day’s relentless strain.
“The team is ashore,” came the calm, measured voice of General Jamison on the other end of the line.
Miriama exhaled softly, her grip tightening around the receiver. “We’re committed now,” she replied, her voice steady despite the knot tightening in her chest. It was one thing to do a quick in and out type mission, but to leave these men in place on foreign soil, if they were discovered, could spell diplomatic disaster.
“Yes, Prime Minister, we are certainly that.”
“Thank you for letting me know, General. Please... keep me informed of their progress—every step of the way.”
“Of course, Ma’am. Have a good evening.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Ha, yes. What’s left of it. You too, General. Best of luck to us all.”
She set the phone down, the line disconnecting with a soft click, and stood slowly. The weight on her shoulders felt heavier in the quiet solitude of her office. Moving to the window, she looked out over the harbour, now cloaked in shadow. The big ship which had been moored there earlier was gone.
Gone to join the fray, no doubt, she thought grimly.
The distant lights of the city glittered against the inky water, oblivious to the storm brewing far from their shores. Everything was moving so fast. Meetings, briefings, decisions—each one a potential tipping point. And yet, in the quiet of her office, the enormity of it all pressed down on her harder than ever.
She caught her own reflection in the glass: weary eyes, furrowed brow, and the faint lines of worry etched around her mouth. When did she get so old, she wondered to herself. Was she making the right decisions? Were her calls enough to keep her people safe?
Her thoughts drifted to the team ashore, their mission dangerous but vital. They were just shadows in the larger game, moving silently toward an uncertain future. And she had sent them there. She had signed the orders, knowing the risks.
Miriama pressed her palm against the cool glass, her gaze fixed on the harbour as if searching for answers in the darkness. The water lapped quietly against the docks below, indifferent to the turmoil it hid beneath its surface.
She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, summoning the resolve which had carried her this far. There would be no room for doubt now—not with everything on the line.
Straightening her posture, she turned from the window. The decisions had been made, the pieces set in motion. Now all she could do was wait, watch, and hope.
Hope that she wasn’t steering her nation into ruin.