In the hours following, governmental agencies particularly the Security Intelligence Service(SIS) and Government Communications Security Bureau (GCSB) scrambled to manage the fallout of this devastating news. However, efforts to fully suppress the more sensitive details of Canterbury's sinking proved futile—news this monumental never stays quiet for long, especially in the digital age! Despite their best efforts, the truth leaked out to the public. Though the specific details remained fragmented, two facts were undeniable: a New Zealand naval vessel had been lost, and there were whispers of Chinese involvement.

The collective psyche of the nation shuddered, dredging up painful memories of the still-unresolved sinking of the HMNZS Manawanui some ten years earlier—a national wound that had never fully healed. By late morning, with headlines like “Another Warship Lost!”, “HMNZS Canterbury Sunk by a Foreign Power!” and Sinclair’s personal favourite, “New Zealand Peacekeepers Murdered in Cold Blood!”, the government had no choice but to issue a terse statement confirming the loss of the Canterbury and urging calm. But the reassurance was too little, too late.

As the news broke officially, the vibrancy of New Zealand’s weekend life fell eerily silent. It was as if the entire nation had collectively held its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The media frenzy ignited instantly, feeding on scraps of truth and rampant speculation, headlines blared across screens and papers with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.. By midday, political pundits and so-called military experts filled the airwaves, spinning narratives ranging from the plausible to the outright absurd. Social media became a battleground of half-truths, fabrications, and outright propaganda. On platforms like YouTube, over a hundred hastily made videos dissected the incident, their creators vying for attention amidst the chaos.

But alongside the outcry, a darker undercurrent emerged. Fear and grief mutated into anger, and that anger sought a target. Almost immediately, parts of the public, whipped into a frenzy by misplaced patriotism and xenophobia, turned their fury toward New Zealand's Asian community. It didn’t matter whether someone was Chinese, Korean, Japanese, or even a fifth-generation Kiwi of Asian descent. To the enraged, nuance was irrelevant.

Calls flooded emergency lines, reporting "Sketchy looking Asians" in neighbourhoods or public spaces. At first, these calls were just nuisances. But soon, words turned to aggression and aggression turned to action. What began as verbal abuse escalated into acts of vandalism. By mid-afternoon, the simmering hostility had erupted into full scale violence as neighbourhoods went to war with each other.

Shattered glass littered city streets as Asian-owned businesses were targeted. Homes were torched in acts of blind rage. Hospitals filled with victims—some Asian, others innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. Emergency services were almost immediately overwhelmed. Firefighters, spread thin by arson attacks across the country, struggled to contain the blazes. Ambulance crews faced threats and physical attacks while trying to rescue the injured.

The police, though well trained and committed, were outnumbered and unprepared for this scale of unrest. New Zealand’s relatively small force, accustomed to a peaceful nation, strained to contain the spiralling chaos. The country teetered on the brink of an abyss, its veneer of harmony shattered.

At the heart of the turmoil was the Canterbury and its crew, peacekeepers whose lives had been extinguished in what felt like a deliberate, calculated and callous act. For New Zealanders, the sinking was more than just a military loss; it was a national tragedy, a raw and gaping wound demanding answers and justice.

But as the nation burned—both figuratively and literally—it became chillingly clear that those answers, even if they came, might not arrive in time to halt the destruction. The flames of anger and grief, unchecked and untamed, threatened to consume the very fabric of New Zealand society.

***

Miriama spent several gruelling hours that morning making the calls no leader ever wants to make. Each number she dialled connected her to a family irrevocably altered by the tragedy, their grief spilling through the receiver like a tidal wave. Mothers wailed, fathers fell silent, siblings broke down in disbelief, and she bore it all, their anguish carving deep lines into her soul. With each call, she offered what solace she could, her voice steady even as her heart shattered under the weight of their sorrow. One of those calls, ended up being a little boy and his simple question of “why isn’t my daddy coming home?”, had threatened to break her completely.

Amongst those calls, she convened meetings with New Zealand’s emergency services commissioners and the head of Civil Defence. The riots, fuelled by fear and anger, had spiralled into full-blown violence and needed to be addressed. In some places shops were being looted, homes vandalized, and streets that had once echoed with laughter now burned under a haze of chaos. Together, they debated strategies to contain the unrest: how to deploy resources, quell rumours, and protect the vulnerable. Yet, even as those plans were sketched on whiteboards and their urgent directives issued, bigger questions hung over the Prime Minister like a storm cloud.

Why?

Why had Canterbury been attacked? Was it a warning? A calculated move in a larger game? Or, worse, a sign of something even darker on the horizon? Theories circulated through her mind, each more unnerving than the last. Some whispered of espionage, the others weren’t worth repeating or were too concerning to contemplate further. But the truth remained elusive, a shadow dancing just out of reach.

By the end of the list, her shoulders sagged as though carrying the collective grief of a nation. But she got through it. She had to. This was her duty—solemn, sacred, and unshakable—a duty she refused to delegate, no matter how heavy the burden.

Now, the meeting she had been dreading all morning had arrived. This was no mere planning session—it was the crucible where decisions of historic importance would be made. For hours, Miriama had buried herself in the chaos of immediate action, sheltering her mind from the full gravity of what lay ahead. But there was no hiding from it now; it was make-or-break time. The weight of leadership demanded her presence.

After a brief moment to collect herself—a quick, unsatisfying meal, a few stolen minutes to close her eyes and steady her breath—Miriama rose from her desk. Her office, with its polished wood and quiet dignity, felt smaller today, as if the walls themselves understood the gravity of the moment.

She walked to the window, clasping her hands behind her back. Below, the harbour stretched out, glistening under the midday sun. For a moment, Miriama allowed herself the luxury of vulnerability. Her reflection stared back at her from the glass, its sharp edges softened by the light. She could feel the weight pressing down: the lives lost, the unrest spreading like wildfire, the decisions she would soon make that could either steer her country through the storm or shatter it entirely. The water, deceptively serene, sparkled—its beauty hiding the tumult beneath. And there, in the harbour, the Kaitiaki stood as a silent sentinel, unwavering in its vigil. It was a symbol of strength, and she drew from it heavily for what lay ahead.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She turned, steeling herself, her face now a mask of calm determination. Oliver stepped in to inform her that the ministers had arrived, and she nodded, signalling him to bring them in.

Derek Harper, her Foreign Minister, was the first through the door, followed by others. He moved to stand with her by the window, a grim shadow at her side.

"We've already had a dozen calls," he said after a moment, his voice low, controlled. "London, Washington, Beijing, Canberra—even Ottawa. Seoul and Tokyo among others are expected to reach out within the hour. As expected, Canberra stands with us, no matter the choice we make. The Brits and Canadians are urging caution, but the Americans..." He paused. "They’re pushing for a swift, public response. They're still committed in the Middle East, but they’ll back us with whatever they can. The Canadians seem likely to follow suit, and probably the British. Beijing, on the other hand, is still calling it an accident—a rogue act by a captain who buckled under pressure. But you and I both know better than to believe that bollocks!"

Miriama turned sharply, her dark eyes narrowing. The casual profanity wasn’t foreign in her office, but today it felt a little off. And Beijing's audacity!

"Of course it wasn’t!" she spat, barely containing her contempt. "Rogue captains don’t coordinate attacks from two directions at once. They just didn’t want us seeing whatever it was they were up to out there."

She turned back to the now rain-streaked windows, her silhouette framed by the glass. Last night’s weather front still hadn’t completely left them, and it was beginning to show.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Regardless of whether we believe them or not, the game still has to be played. Keep all channels open with Beijing. We need answers, not escalation. If we respond, it has to be measured, calculated."

"Measured?" Derek’s voice rose, frustration breaking through. "With our peacekeepers dead and another one of our ships at the bottom of the ocean? You know as well as I do, we won’t be able to keep this quiet—not after what we learned about Manawanui. That woman was crucified in the media, and the opposition let it happen, too scared of the consequences. That won’t wash a second time!"

"I know!" Miriama snapped, spinning to face him. "But I will not let this country be the catalyst for a world war unless we are absolutely certain. Our priority must be saving lives, not taking them."

Before Derek could respond, a gravelly voice interrupted the tension. "We may not have that luxury anymore."

Kevin MacNielty, the seasoned Defence Minister and long-time MP for Wairarapa, stepped from the shadows, his weathered face set in grim lines.

"We need to engage, Prime Minister. Militarily and Diplomatically, it doesn’t matter, but we must act!" His gaze turned to the Kaitiaki, still looming in the harbour. "The U.S. and Australia have already increased their presence. No shots have been fired yet, but it's coming. You can bet on it. Beijing is on the move. News from the Five Eyes network says they're becoming very active in the Pacific and Southeast Asia. If we don’t act, we risk being sidelined—not just as a player in the Pacific, but as a sovereign nation."

Miriama’s jaw tightened. "A military response, though, there must be another way," she said, her voice steady but laced with steel. "I won’t lead us into war unless it’s absolutely necessary. We’ve already lost too many of our whānau to this mess."

Kevin sighed, rubbing his bearded chin. "I understand your caution, Miri, but caution won’t protect us from the fallout if we hesitate, and military action does not necessarily mean a shooting war. The Pacific is a delicate balance, and what we've built here is still fragile. This is a powder keg. Our trade routes, our lifeblood, are at risk and we must protect them. We can't afford to sit back while others dictate our future. Those ships out there weren’t built to sit idle, Miri. They’re meant for times like these."

"But Kevin, military action?" Miriama shook her head, her voice tinged with disbelief. "They'll crush us. The people won’t stand for it; they're already rioting."

"I think they will," Kevin countered. "But you must speak to them, Miri. Calm them. Unify them. The only way ahead is to focus their anger elsewhere."

Miriama’s incredulity was palpable. Kevin, for all his pragmatism, had never been one for war-mongering. His even temperament had earned him her trust, which made his words all the more jarring. Yet, she couldn’t deny the kernel of truth held within them.

"You are right about one thing," she said after a pause, meeting Kevin’s gaze. "I do need to speak to them. I’ve already scheduled a press conference for later this afternoon. And I want you with me."

“You have my full support, Miri, you know that,” Kevin’s voice was resolute, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

“And mine,” Derek added, his expression firm but his words cautious. “But we need a plan. Military action against China on our own would be reckless—suicidal, even. We must shore up support of our allies, push for sanctions, and keep the victim narrative front and centre. Without that, we risk losing not just credibility and with that, everything.”

Kevin nodded thoughtfully. “Derek’s right. Miri, your address to the nation has to be strong. It needs to unify our people, show them—and the world—that we’re not a nation to be trifled with. Beijing must understand we’re serious. What are you planning to say?”

Miriama stood still for a moment, her gaze distant as she turned to the window. The weight of the moment pressed down on her, but she didn’t waver. Finally, she turned back to face them, her resolve crystal clear.

“The truth, all of it, it’s the only way to get the people on side.” she said, her voice steady, “In the meantime Kevin, I want you to send the carrier strike group to the Coral Sea. Make it a show of strength, but nothing provocative. I don’t want them rattling cages—yet. Let’s keep this careful.”

Kevin gave a curt nod. “I think that’s prudent. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

“Very well,” Miriama replied, looking forlornly at the stack of papers on her desk. Even in a crisis, the wheels of government needed to be greased with the lifeblood of the forest! “Thank you, gentlemen.”

Derek and Kevin began to leave, but as Kevin reached the door, Miriama’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, and Kevin?”

He turned. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

“Let’s not lose any more ships,” she said, her voice carrying an edge of steel. “If the Chinese so much as breathe funny in the direction of our forces, they are to defend themselves—using any means necessary. Am I clear?”

Kevin met her gaze without hesitation. “Crystal clear, Miri.”

“Good,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “Thank you Kevin.”

As the door closed behind him, Miriama sat down heavily at her desk, the tension of the day settling on her shoulders. She reached for the phone, her fingers dialling with practiced precision. When Oliver picked up on the other end, her instructions were quick and direct.

“Oliver, get in touch with Canberra and ask the Australian Prime Minister to calkl me as soon as possible, please. We need to coordinate our efforts.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” came the crisp reply.

Hanging up the phone, Miriama allowed herself a brief moment of quiet. She glanced at the framed photo of her family on the edge of her desk, then at the map of the Pacific pinned to the wall. The stakes were impossibly high, but there was no room for hesitation.

The ball was now rolling, only time would tell how this would play out.

***

Miriama was restless while she waited for the call, she stood and began to pace. The weight of the day, her ever present companion. On her desk lay the classified intelligence briefing packet from earlier, marked with the highest level of clearance. She had read it and re-read it from cover to cover a dozen times already. The information it contained left little room for doubt, but she still had them.

The quiet in the room was broken by the hum of her phone as it rang. She snatched it up and as Oliver connected the line, she sat heavily in her chair.

“John,” she said, her voice tense. “Thanks for calling.”

“Miriama,” came the Australian Prime Minister’s voice, firm and gravelly. “I’m guessing the rumours are true, then?”

She exhaled sharply, her jaw tightening. “Yes. Canterbury is gone. Attacked and sunk in the Solomon Sea. We’ve lost over seventy of her crew. It’s... it’s devastating, John.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Finally, Mitchell spoke, his tone grim. “I’m sorry, Miriama. That’s a terrible loss. The whole Pacific will feel this.”

“They should,” she replied sharply. “And they need to do more than just ‘feel’ it. We can’t let this go unanswered.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But before we get ahead of ourselves, I need to ask: how sure are you about who’s behind this? The reports I’ve seen are still vague. Do you have proof?”

Miriama leaned back, gripping the armrest of her chair. “We do. Our Navy picked up radar and electronic signals before the attack, and we’ve matched them to known Chinese naval signatures. Satellite imagery confirms the presence of a Chinese guided-missile frigate in the immediate area just before Canterbury was hit. And we’ve intercepted communications from the vessel that directly reference targeting our ship.”

Mitchell’s tone sharpened. “Intercepted comms? How reliable is the analysis?”

“Our best intelligence people are on it,” Miriama said. “I’ve had this independently verified through five eyes. There’s no question about it, John. It was deliberate. They wanted to send a message.”

“Bloody hell,” Mitchell muttered. “A rogue captain, maybe? Or do you think this goes higher?”

Miriama paused, choosing her words carefully. “Beijing is already spinning that lie, but I don’t buy it. The coordination, the precision—it’s too clean to be a mistake. This has to have came from the top.”

Mitchell exhaled audibly. “So, what’s your move? Are you thinking about Article 51?”

“It’s definitely on the table,” she admitted. “But it’s not a step we take lightly. I’m meeting with the cabinet again tonight, and we’ll need to weigh our options. If we do invoke Article 51, we’re declaring that we see this as an armed attack. That puts us in a state of conflict. I won’t do it without a united front.”

“Well, you’ll have Australia’s full support if it comes to that,” Mitchell said, his voice steady. “But let me be blunt, Miriama. A formal invocation changes everything. Beijing won’t back down—they’ll dig in. Are you ready for that?”

“No one is ever ready for war, John,” she said quietly. “But what choice do we have? If we let this slide, we’ll be inviting more attacks. They’ll see us as weak, and the Pacific as theirs to dominate. I won’t let New Zealand become a pawn in their game.”

Mitchell’s voice softened slightly. “I get it. And I agree. But you need to be sure the public’s with you on this. You’ll have my government behind you, but if we’re going to face down China, we need to move together. What do you need from me?”

“For now?” Miriama said. “Solidarity. We’ll need joint naval operations to show a united front. I’ve already ordered the Tangaroa strike group to move to the Coral Sea. I want to position them close to the Solomons to act as a deterrent and to secure our waters.”

“That’s a bold move,” Mitchell said after a moment. “But I think it’s the right one. I’ll make sure the navy sends some assets in support of your group. Meanwhile, we’ll send our carrier strike group to patrol the Timor and Arafura Seas. If things escalate, we’ll need to keep those key passages secure and keep the pressure off you in the Coral Sea.”

“Thank you, John,” Miriama said, her voice carrying a rare note of relief. “It means a lot knowing we’re not facing this alone.”

“You’re never alone, Miriama,” he replied. “Not with ANZAC. Not with us. I’ll make a statement as soon as you finish yours. And I’ll start moving assets into position. But Miriama... be careful. We can’t afford to misstep here. Not with the stakes this high.”

“I know,” she replied. “Believe me, I know. But we can’t let fear paralyze us, John. This is about more than just New Zealand or Australia—it’s about the future of the Pacific.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Keep me updated. And Miriama?”

“Yes?”

“I’m truly sorry for your loss. Those sailors deserved better.”

Her voice caught briefly before she replied. “Thank you, John. I do appreciate that and I’ll talk to you soon.”

As the call ended, Miriama sat in silence for a moment, staring at the intelligence report in front of her. The evidence was damning. The consequences, terrifying. But she knew one thing for certain: they couldn’t stand down. Not this time.