Word of the spy ship’s seizure reached the office of Sun Kai, Director of the Ministry for State Security, the moment it went offline. Within minutes, alarms were ringing across the Ministry’s secure networks. He moved quickly, summoning his senior intelligence officers to assess the potential damage.
Early reports suggested that his embedded asset remained undetected—for now. But how long that would last was anyone’s guess. If the Western powers got their hands on certain classified systems, the fallout would be catastrophic.
Grim-faced, Sun Kai wasted no time in briefing the Politburo. The implications were dire. New Zealand’s seizure of the ship was not just an embarrassment—it was a direct challenge. Within hours, Beijing fired off an official protest, condemning the New Zealand Navy’s actions as an illegal seizure of a foreign-flagged vessel in international waters.
Wellington hit back just as fast. The Prime Minister’s office released satellite imagery, intercepted communications, and electronic warfare logs proving the vessel had been engaged in surveillance against multiple Pacific nations. The Chinese Foreign Ministry dismissed the evidence as fabricated, countering with accusations of “reckless provocation” and warning that New Zealand was playing a dangerous game that could destabilize the region.
The diplomatic fight escalated, neither side willing to back down an inch. While politicians and diplomats traded blows in press conferences and official statements, a joint New Zealand and Australian engineering team worked in secrecy at the naval dockyard in Suva, where the captured spy ship had been secured.
For days, they picked the vessel apart, combing through every inch of its systems, cataloguing hardware, decrypting data, and mapping out its labyrinthine networks. Some of what they found was expected—high-powered antennas, signal interception arrays, and advanced electronic warfare suites, the hallmarks of a top-tier surveillance platform. But there were also surprises. Technologies beyond anything they had encountered before, systems that suggested China had made breakthroughs in intelligence gathering that the West had yet to match.
The deeper they dug, the more unsettling the discoveries became. Some of the ship’s equipment didn’t just listen—it could manipulate. Electronic warfare capabilities that far outmatched their own. Communications interference capabilities that could spoof encrypted signals, data infiltration tools which suggested the ability to inject false information into enemy networks, and—most disturbingly—an unknown transmission protocol that none of the analysts could immediately identify.
“This isn’t just about spying,” one Australian engineer muttered, staring at the decoded schematics. “This thing was built to control.”
The room fell silent as the weight of the statement sank in. If China had already deployed this technology undetected, how many more ships like this were out there? And worse—what else had they compromised?
Over the following week, New Zealand scrambled to shore up international support. Prime Minister Kahu dispatched her foreign minister, Derek Harper, on a whirlwind tour of allied capitals. With him was Australian Foreign Minister Katie DuPhries, both moving with urgency as they sought to rally key partners.
In London, the pair met behind closed doors at 10 Downing Street with British Prime Minister Richard Winslow. Over strong tea and stronger conversation, a deal was struck. The UK would officially commit the aircraft carrier Ark Royal to Pacific operations, signalling solidarity and provide additional satellite surveillance to track Chinese movements.
The next day, in Ottawa, Harper and DuPhries along with the British Ambassador to Canada, stood alongside Canadian Prime Minister Thomas Bouchard at a press conference. The Canadian, Australian, New Zealand and United Kingdom flags behind him, the implication of which were very clear, as he spoke in measured tones:
“While we urge restraint, we must also remain vigilant. Canada stands ready to support our partners in the Pacific in upholding international law and ensuring regional stability.”
His words were diplomatic, but the message was unmistakable: New Zealand and Australia were not standing alone.
Then came Washington. The real test.
In the Oval Office, Harper and DuPhries sat across from President Ellen Carter. The room was thick with tension. Carter leaned forward, fingers steepled.
“This is a mess,” she said bluntly. “And the last thing I need is another crisis in the Pacific. Beijing is already screaming about ‘Western aggression.’”
Harper didn’t flinch. “Madam President, they got caught red-handed, and now they’re trying to turn the tables. If we let this slide, they’ll take it as a green light for more of the same.”
Carter exhaled sharply, weighing her words. “The U.S. won’t abandon its allies. But we need to be smart about how we handle this.”
DuPhries leaned in. “Madam President, with all due respect, smart doesn’t mean hesitating. We need firm deterrence. If Beijing sees even a flicker of doubt, they’ll push harder. That’s why we need something concrete—joint patrols, expanded intelligence sharing, maybe even freedom-of-navigation exercises near contested waters.”
Carter drummed her fingers against the desk, staring at the map of the Pacific on an easel beside the wall. Finally, she nodded.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s talk options.”
***
In retaliation for the loss of one of their intelligence assets, Beijing escalated its cyber offensive into a full-scale digital war. The attacks came in relentless waves, each more insidious than the last. Power grids wavered under the strain, banking systems flickered in and out of operation, and entire sections of government networks found themselves under siege. Hospital databases were scrambled, air traffic control systems suffered brief but terrifying blackouts, and supply chains faltered as port logistics ground to a halt.
Recognizing the scale of the threat, Australia dispatched a team of elite cyber warfare specialists to Wellington. They embedded themselves within New Zealand’s National Cyber Security Centre, reinforcing defensive firewalls and deploying countermeasures to neutralize hostile incursions. Their arrival couldn’t have been better timed—within hours, they intercepted what appeared to be an attempt to breach the Royal New Zealand Navy’s secure command network. Had it succeeded, the consequences would have been catastrophic.
Yet, for all of China’s aggression, New Zealand’s defences held firm. While emergency teams fought to keep critical infrastructure online, cyber warfare specialists worked around the clock, deploying advanced countermeasures and rerouting systems to mitigate the worst of the damage. Though the attacks were relentless, they never achieved the crippling blow Beijing had hoped for. Power was restored within minutes of any outage, financial systems had redundancies in place, and key government networks remained intact behind layers of adaptive encryption.
At the same time, New Zealand’s cyber units were far from passive. Working in tandem with Australian specialists and drawing on newly provided encryption tools from the UK and Canada, they struck back with ruthless precision. New Zealand Security Intelligence Service (NZSIS) cyber operatives unleashed a calculated counteroffensive, exploiting a backdoor—one uncovered during the forensic dissection of the captured spy ship.
For several critical hours, that access turned the tide. Chinese logistics hubs plunged into disarray as port schedules were scrambled, shipping manifests deleted, and vital supply lines snarled beyond recognition. Naval communication networks flickered and failed at crucial moments, sowing confusion within the People’s Liberation Army Navy (PLAN). The country’s missile defence grid activating and deactivating. Even military satellites briefly suffered anomalies, their telemetry data skewed just enough to disrupt real-time coordination.
The Chinese response to these incursions was as you would expect, swift and adaptive. Their cyber warfare divisions moved with ruthless efficiency, sealing vulnerabilities as quickly as they appeared. Yet, in those few hours of unchecked digital mayhem, the damage was done. New Zealand had proven that it wasn’t just a minor player in the cyber realm—it was a force to be reckoned with. And Beijing had just learned, painfully, that the war they had unleashed would not be fought solely on their terms.
Over the following days, an unspoken détente settled over the conflict. Neither side would publicly acknowledge any wrongdoing, nor would they entirely abandon their cyber offensives—but the tempo shifted. What had been a relentless barrage of digital warfare slowed to a series of probing strikes, more akin to a high-stakes chess match than an all-out assault. New Zealand had proven it could land a punch, and China, for all its bluster, now recognized that further escalation carried very real risks. Mutual respect, born out of digital carnage, tempered the aggression—for now.
Behind the scenes, however, the game continued to evolve. The UK and Canada, having already dipped their hands into the fight, went beyond diplomatic pleasantries. British signals intelligence specialists embedded themselves within New Zealand’s cybersecurity operations, delivering cutting-edge encryption tools that hardened government and military networks against future attacks. Meanwhile, Canadian and American cyber units discreetly funnelled both manpower and advanced AI-driven countermeasures into Wellington’s defensive grid. The Five Eyes alliance—once a quiet cornerstone of intelligence-sharing—had transformed into something more akin to a war council.
But while the digital battlefield cooled to a simmer, tensions in the Pacific surged. Australia doubled down on its commitment to regional security, expanding joint naval patrols with New Zealand. Warships moved with deliberate intent through contested waters, their presence a warning as much as a safeguard. The Tangaroa Strike Group, bolstered by its Australian counterparts, increased its operational reach, pushing further into volatile zones where Chinese naval activity had become increasingly assertive. Every maneuver was calculated, every deployment a message: the Pacific would not be lost without a fight!
Then came the whispers—quiet, cautious at first, but growing in frequency and seriousness. ANZUS. A name that had been little more than a historical footnote in New Zealand’s defence policy was now being spoken in hushed briefings, high-level meetings, and off-the-record discussions between military officials. For the Chinese, the unthinkable was being considered: a formal reactivation of the alliance. For decades, the idea had seemed distant, if not outright impossible. But now, with New Zealand and Australia staring down a confrontation that could spill beyond cyberspace—beyond economic warfare and into something far more dangerous—the question was no longer if it should happen, but when.
***
While tensions simmered in the halls of power, they crackled like a live wire on the open sea. The HMAS Maitland, one of the Royal Australian Navy’s cutting-edge Wattle-class general-purpose frigates, had joined Canterbury while still in port in Su’va. Their crews wasted no time forging a tight bond, swapping stories over beers on shore leave, swapping intelligence, sharpening operational tactics, and coordinating upcoming movements across the region. The camaraderie was instinctive—born of shared history, mutual respect, and the understanding that they might soon be once again standing shoulder to shoulder in something far uglier than patrol duty.
Later that week, as both ships cleared the harbour, Canterbury rode the gentle rise and fall of the Pacific swells, her engines humming steadily beneath the deck. On the bridge, Captain Caleb Robinson surveyed the operations, his sharp features drawn in quiet concentration. The symphony of naval life played around him—the rhythmic hum of comms traffic, the occasional burst of static, the subdued voices of his officers as they monitored the vast blue expanse ahead.
"Canterbury, this is Maitland," a voice crackled through the ship-to-ship comms, carrying a distinct Aussie twang. Commander Erica Lang, Maitland’s commanding officer—cool, measured, but with a confidence that could cut steel. "It’s your show, Canterbury. Shall we crack on?"
Robinson allowed himself a brief grin, he had taken an instant liking to the women. She was strong, confident but not arrogant, and she had a wicked sense of humour! Her words implied impatience, but he knew better, and his tone remained as steady as the sea beneath them. "We shall. Glad to have you along, Maitland. It’s been getting pretty frisky out here. Good to know we’re not alone."
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Lang’s reply came without hesitation, edged with the kind of resolve that had carried Aussie sailors through generations of hard-fought battles. "If they want to play games, let them. Overconfidence is their weakness."
Robinson leaned back slightly, considering her words. He knew the kind of enemy they were up against—ruthless, calculating, and relentless. The temptation to underestimate them would be a fatal mistake. "Understood, Maitland. Let’s make sure we don’t fall into the same trap."
Outside, the Pacific stretched in every direction—vast, indifferent, and deceptively calm. The two warships cut through the water with quiet purpose, their coordinated patrols a message as much as a mission. Beneath the air of camaraderie, a stark reality loomed. Every radar ping, every unidentified contact could be the next move in a deadly game of cat and mouse.
***
At Pipitea Street, the fluorescent glow of the situation room cast sharp shadows across the faces of the gathered intelligence specialists. Screens flickered with streams of code, intercepted transmissions, and real-time threat assessments. In a secured office just beyond, Charles Sinclair, Director of the NZSIS, stood by the window, watching the rain hammer against the glass.
Jonathan Willoughby’s face filled the screen on Sinclair’s desk. The ASIS Director looked as exhausted as Sinclair felt, dark circles under his eyes betraying the sleepless nights that had become routine.
“We may have something,” Willoughby began, rubbing his temple. “One of our analysts cross-referenced some of the data pulled from the spy ship’s logs with internal clearance records, yours and ours. It’s not definitive, but there’s a pattern—a certain individual referred to as ‘Iron Lotus’, who keeps surfacing in places he shouldn’t be.”
Sinclair straightened. “How high up?”
Willoughby hesitated, then exhaled. “Higher than we’d like. Former cabinet-level.”
Sinclair’s expression darkened. “Give me a name.”
“We’re still working to confirm, but—” Willoughby glanced at something offscreen before lowering his voice. “He definitely fits the profile, male, unmarried, no children, of Asian descent, lavish lifestyle.”
“Who?” Sinclair queried.
“Nathan Liu, former National deputy minister for defence and the current Shadow Defence.”
Sinclair swore under his breath. “Jesus Christ!” He paced the room, the implications sinking in. If true, this wasn’t just a low-level informant passing scraps of intelligence. This was someone who had, at one point, had direct access to classified military decisions, operational plans—hell, possibly even the very command codes they had just scrambled.
“Tell me you’ve got more than just a hunch,” Sinclair pressed.
“Not much more,” Willoughby admitted. “Financial transactions show some irregularities. Meetings in places that don’t make sense for someone in his post. We’re running facial recognition against international travel databases now. If he’s our guy, he’s careful. But not careful enough.”
Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. “If this is real, and he’s still active…”
“Then we’ve got a hell of a bigger problem than just cyber warfare,” Willoughby finished grimly.
A silence hung between them, the weight of what they were discussing settling like lead.
Finally, Sinclair spoke, his voice edged with cold resolve. “Find me proof, Jonno. Hard proof. If this bastard’s been selling us out, I want to be the one to drag him into the daylight.”
Willoughby gave a tight nod. “We’re on it. You’ll have what you need soon.”
The screen went black, leaving Sinclair alone with the rain and the storm that had yet to break.
***
Sinclair sat at the head of a conference table, in a dimly lit meeting room off the side of the operations room at Pipitea Street. His fingers steepled as he listened to the rapid-fire exchanges between his senior analysts. A digital map of New Zealand and the Pacific flickered on the big screen TV mounted on the wall beside them, data streams and intelligence updates scrolling down the side. Two days had passed since the Australian cyber team had stumbled upon their first real lead of the PRC’s intelligence asset—something hidden deep in the compromised network logs from the captured spy ship.
It was a pattern—anomalous data movements, encrypted messages buried under layers of obfuscation, originating from inside New Zealand’s own government infrastructure. The logs weren’t random. They lined up too neatly with classified naval movements, procurement schedules, and—most damning of all—the rotation of encryption keys used by the NZDF.
Someone inside the system had been feeding information out. And now Sinclair had a name.
“Alright,” Sinclair exhaled, standing and pacing back and forth along the length of the table, “let’s go over what we actually know. No guesswork, just hard leads.”
A junior analyst pulled up a separate screen, highlighting a filtered dataset. “The MSS communication logs from the spy ship contained repeated references to a high-value informant embedded in the New Zealand government. The ship wasn’t just gathering raw intelligence; it was acting as a relay. Whoever ‘Iron Lotus’ is, they weren’t just dumping data on the dark web. They had a direct channel to Beijing.”
Sinclair gave a slow nod. That much they’d already suspected. He turned to Lisa Taylor, one of the top cyber warfare specialists flown in from Canberra. “Tell me about the exfiltration patterns.”
Taylor tapped at her tablet, her voice clipped and professional. “We cross-referenced data breaches with defence policy shifts over the past ten years. Every time a major leak occurred—naval procurement strategies, joint operations with us—there was a corresponding policy push inside your Defence Ministry to downplay the risk from China.”
She swiped to the next screen, revealing a timeline.
“The fingerprints are all over it. Disruptions in defence committee meetings. Delays in approving new encryption standards. Stalled cybersecurity upgrades. It wasn’t just passive leaking—it was shaping policy to ensure Beijing always had an advantage.”
Sinclair exhaled slowly. This wasn’t just some opportunistic mole selling secrets on the side. This was calculated. Deep. Long-term.
His mind drifted back to a dinner he'd attended several years ago, a high-level National Party fundraiser. Nathan Liu had been there, drinking red wine and chatting amiably with military brass, effortlessly shifting between Mandarin and English. A well-liked, unassuming figure. Just another suit in the room. But now... now it all made sense.
By the next morning, Sinclair had the pieces mostly in place.
He met with Jonathan Willoughby, his counterpart at ASIS, in a secured underground briefing room. Between them sat a thick dossier.
Willoughby rubbed his chin, flipping through the pages with an unreadable expression. “I’ll give him credit. If this is Liu, he played a bloody long game.”
Sinclair tapped at the dossier. “His fingerprints are on too many things now. Defence budgetary oversight in the early 2010s? He was on the approval board for naval upgrades. The decision to downsize the SIGINT program that would have flagged these leaks years ago? He was an advisor on the oversight select committee.”
Willoughby nodded. “And this?” He pointed to a bank statement buried in the file.
Sinclair’s expression darkened. “Deposits. Offshore accounts linked to shell companies out of Macau.”
Willoughby let out a slow breath. “That’s it, then. This is the fucker!”
Sinclair wasn’t ready to say it aloud just yet. “I want one more thing. I need to see his movements over the past month. Who he’s been talking to, who he’s met with. We cross-reference that with our known MSS operatives in-country. If we can put him in a room with someone dirty, then we’ve got him nailed!”
Willoughby gave a small smirk. “And when we do?”
Sinclair’s eyes were cold. “That will be for the Prime Minister to decide, I suppose.”
That evening, an encrypted message came through from Australia’s Signals Directorate.
CLASSIFIED – SIGINT INTERCEPT
SUBJECT: Liu Weisheng (Nathan Liu) | Codename: Iron Lotus
INTERCEPT DATE: [REDACTED]
Confirmed sighting: Auckland, three weeks prior. Subject met with an unidentified male of Asian descent, approximately 50 years old, in an underground parking garage. Facial recognition software ran a 78% match against known MSS field operatives working under diplomatic cover. No formal engagement recorded, but security footage shows an envelope exchanged.
Sinclair read the report twice before slamming the file shut. This was it.
He picked up his secure phone and dialled Willoughby’s cell.
“We’ve got him,” Sinclair said, voice sharp. “I need to take this to the P-M, but we do need to do something soon. Because if he even suspects we’re onto him, Iron Lotus is going to vanish.”
And that was something they couldn’t afford.
***
Within the hour Sinclair was rapidly walking the halls of the Beehive with a weighty file in hand, his steps deliberate and steady. “It can’t wait!” He said to the young man outside the office of Prime Minister Miriama Kahu, who picked up the phone immediately and after a few terse words, ushered the man inside. Normally, the Prime Minister’s office was a space of quiet authority, but today, it felt unusually tense. Miriama sat at her desk, and beside her was Kevin MacNielty, the Minister of Defence, arms folded and his expression grim.
Miriama greeted Sinclair with a stiff nod. "Alright, Sinclair. What have you got for me?" Her voice was calm, but the line of her mouth betrayed the underlying dislike she still felt for the man and the tension she was feeling from the previous conversation.
Sinclair wasted no time. He opened the file and set it down in front of her. "This," he began, voice steady, "is Nathan Liu. He’s our mole."
Miriama’s eyebrows rose, but her expression remained neutral. She glanced at Kevin, who gave a slight nod, acknowledging Sinclair's report. As the minister for Defence, Kevin was aware of the investigation and its progress, though he was unaware of the specifics.
"Go on," Miriama said, her voice now sharp with curiosity.
Sinclair didn't hesitate. He began recounting the details, his eyes never leaving the Prime Minister’s face as he spoke. “Liu, codenamed ‘Iron Lotus’ by the Chinese, has been actively passing sensitive information to Beijing for years. He’s deeply embedded himself within our government, and we’ve got proof that he’s been shaping our defence policies to favour Chinese interests.”
Miriama’s expression flickered. “What proof do you have of this?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
"We cross-referenced his known movements with several anomalous data breaches, going back to the start of his career as an MP,” Sinclair said, tapping a screen that projected a timeline onto the wall. “And every time there was a significant policy leak—particularly involving defence procurement or defence cooperation with Australia—there was a corresponding push within the defence ministry to downplay Chinese threats." He paused, letting the gravity of the information sink in. "Delays in cybersecurity measures, policy blockages. It was all coordinated."
Kevin let out a quiet sigh, clearly not surprised by the developments but grimacing at the extent of the betrayal. Since they had discovered the existence of the mole, he had been conducting his own quiet investigations within his ministry and was horrified to discover just how lax security was over there. Consequently, he had implemented some very serious security reforms, that was why he was there, to brief the P-M on what he had found and his actions to resolve it.
Miriama’s lips tightened. "This is starting to sound like something out of a spy novel."
Sinclair clicked through another screen, revealing a set of financial records. “It gets worse,” he said quietly. "Liu's offshore accounts, linked to shell companies in Macau. We’ve traced multiple payments—large ones—from entities connected to Chinese military contractors and by extension, the CCP itself."
Miriama’s face hardened. "Are you telling me this man has been selling out this country for years, and we’ve been blind to it?"
Sinclair nodded, his voice grim. "I’m afraid so. But there is more."
Miriama leaned forward now, her jaw tightening as Sinclair laid out the final piece of the puzzle: a report detailing Liu’s meeting with a suspected MSS field operative in an underground parking garage in Auckland. The pictures of the two men exchanging an envelope. The details of the facial recognition software and its 78% match between the unidentified operative and known members of the PRC’s intelligence apparatus.
Miriama's fists clenched, her nails digging into the wood of her desk. "I don’t believe this shit," she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else in the room. She took a deep breath, her voice rising with the anger she was barely keeping in check. "This mother fucker has been working for Beijing, sabotaging our national security, and we’ve let it go on for how long?"
Sinclair’s gaze remained steady. "Years. He’s been in the system long enough to shape policy, divert resources, and blind us to the true extent of the Chinese threat here in New Zealand."
Kevin, sensing the intensity of Miriama’s fury, interjected smoothly. "I know it’s a lot to take in, Miri, trust me, I feel as angry, as betrayed as you do, but we have to think this through. What happens if we move too quickly? What happens if we just arrest him? He’s connected, and we risk a backlash from Beijing. He’ll disappear or be disappeared!"
Miriama’s eyes flashed with fury. "Then we catch him! This isn’t a matter of politics, Kevin! This is treason!"
Sinclair nodded, his tone measured. "I understand your anger, Prime Minister, but we’ve got to think strategically. If Liu suspects we’re on to him, he’ll vanish. And worse, he might take everything he knows to Beijing with him. What we need now is to turn him, or at least manipulate him into feeding them disinformation."
Kevin leaned in, his voice calm and authoritative. "We can feed Liu false intelligence. If we keep him close, play our cards right, we can mislead Beijing. It’s not just about catching him—it’s about using him to our advantage."
Miriama’s expression was a battle of conflicting emotions—outrage mixing with the cold pragmatism of a leader who had seen enough to know when the situation demanded a calculated hand. She ran a hand over her face, taking a moment before speaking.
"So, you want me to play this… diplomatically? Allow him to think he’s still valuable, use him to feed Beijing misinformation?" Her voice was tight, barely containing her frustration.
Sinclair nodded, his voice low. "We don’t have the luxury of rushing in, Prime Minister. If we can control the flow of information he sends, we gain leverage. We weaken Beijing’s operations here, and we buy time to uncover the full scope of his network."
Miriama’s fist pounded the desk. “This is a betrayal of everything we stand for. We’re talking about a man who’s sold us out to a foreign power, who’s sold out every citizen of this country.”
“I know, Miri!” Kevin said, his tone soft but firm. "But Sinclair is right, we can’t afford to lose this opportunity. The stakes are too high. If we move recklessly, we lose him. And we might lose the chance to manipulate the coming unpleasantness in our favour.”
Miriama’s gaze flickered between the two men, the weight of the decision heavy in her eyes. Slowly, she exhaled, visibly struggling to reconcile her anger with the cold, hard reality of the situation.
"Fine," she said, her voice taut with restraint. "We’ve been talking about bringing the opposition in on certain meetings, lets do that and see what happens. But I’ll be damned if I let this bastard off easy. If we’re going to do this, it’s on my terms. We proceed cautiously. And the moment I see even the slightest sign that Liu is playing us—he’s gone."
Kevin nodded, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Understood."
Sinclair’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of relief. "We’ll move carefully, Prime Minister."
Miriama nodded, but the fire still burned behind her eyes. "Make no mistake, Sinclair—if he thinks he’s playing us, I will have his head, on a spike, in front of my office door—am I clear gentlemen?"