The missile crisis had barely begun to settle when disaster struck again.

It started with a flicker. A brief, almost imperceptible drop in data speeds. A hiccup in New Zealand’s digital bloodstream. Then, within minutes, online video games froze, YouTube videos stopped buffering, social media feeds refused to update. Even the outage-detection websites weren’t functioning.

The internet just stopped.

Within an hour, panic began to ripple across the country. Banks struggled to process transactions, businesses ground to a halt, and even government agencies found themselves scrambling for alternative communication methods. It was more than an inconvenience—it was a gut punch to modern life.

At first, it seemed like a routine outage. Technical failures weren’t unheard of, but as minutes stretched into hours and engineers failed to identify any local cause, a chilling realization began to take hold. Over the next several days, they traced the problem to its source: the undersea fiber-optic cable linking New Zealand to the world had been severed.

It hadn’t been cut in shallow waters where a wayward anchor or geological activity might explain the damage. No, the break was deep—far beyond the economic exclusion zone, in a stretch of ocean far from normal shipping lanes. Worse still, the damage was consistent with an explosive detonation.

This had been deliberate.

Satellites still functioned, so government communications remained intact, but for the general population, the outage was catastrophic. No social media. No email. No instant news. Within days, the country was spiralling into frustration, confusion, and paranoia. Conspiracy theories ran rampant, and tempers flared in ways that hadn’t been seen since the pandemic lockdowns.

Inside the Beehive, the mood was just as grim.

Minister of Defence Kevin MacNielty tossed a classified report onto the polished wood table. The sharp slap of paper echoed in the tense silence. The other ministers flinched, but Prime Minister Miriama Kahu barely reacted. She stared down at the briefing document as if she could will it to say something different.

“This was no coincidence,” MacNielty muttered, rubbing his temple. “Intel is circling back to Chinese involvement. They deny it, of course.”

“They denied the submarine attack, too,” Kahu said sharply, voice tight with frustration. She had barely recovered from the missile crisis, and now this. “What’s their excuse this time?”

MacNielty exhaled heavily. “Officially? They’re suggesting a deep-sea earthquake. Or maybe a fishing trawler ‘accidentally’ dragged an anchor across the cable.” His voice darkened. “Unofficially, MSS fingerprints are all over this.”

Across the table, Foreign Minister Derek Harper let out a slow breath, fingers drumming absently against the ceramic rim of his coffee cup. “This isn’t just about knocking out internet access. It’s economic sabotage. Investors are already panicking. If they can sever one of our major links to the global network, they can do it again. We look vulnerable.”

Kahu’s expression darkened. “And the timing. The missile launch—was that just a distraction?”

Silence stretched between them. The thought had crossed everyone’s mind. Had Beijing orchestrated a high-profile provocation to mask a more insidious attack?

A quiet, but steady, knock at the door interrupted the tension. Kahu’s assistant, Oliver Walker, poked his head in, his expression taut.

“Prime Minister—just received confirmation. Chorus has pinpointed the break. Engineers are en route, but they estimate repairs will take several days, given the depth.” He hesitated, then added, “The Royal Navy is deploying undersea drones to assist with the effort. The Australians have also committed assets.”

Kahu nodded, but there was little relief in her face. She turned back to MacNielty. “If this was deliberate sabotage, what’s our response?”

The Defence Minister hesitated. “Short of a direct military confrontation? There’s little we can do beyond reinforcing our surveillance and deterrence efforts. Between us and the Aussies, we’ve got almost every inch of Australasian waters covered—by air, sea, and submarine. What we haven’t got covered, the British, the Canadians, and now the Americans are stepping in to fill the gaps.” He tapped the file on the table. His tone turned grave. “But let’s be clear—this is getting very real. We no longer have the luxury of pacifism. If they try this again, we must be ready.”

A quiet, simmering anger settled over the room. This was more than a provocation—it was a test, and New Zealand would not be found wanting.

***

The Defence Council had anticipated a Chinese response to the submarine attack, but severing the data cable was a brazen escalation—one they could not let pass unanswered. A direct military retaliation at this stage of the game, would be considered an act of war, and the Kiwi’s could not be the ones, to0 throw the first punch in that fight. The Chinese government would deny involvement and play the victim, just as they had with the missile launch. Instead, they would strike back in a different way.

Rather than waiting for Beijing’s next move, they decided to make one of their own—not with weapons, but with deception. They needed to destabilize China’s confidence, throw its intelligence services into disarray, and above all, turn Nathan Liu—Beijing’s man in Wellington—into an unwitting pawn. Thus, Operation Steel Lily was born.

The plan was simple in execution but potentially devastating in effect. Carefully curated “leaks” would be manufactured and funnelled into Liu’s network. Some details would be true enough to pass scrutiny, while others—deliberately crafted falsehoods with enough plausibility that they may be true—would be designed to send the MSS into a panic.

To ensure Liu took the bait, they needed to make him believe he was uncovering something truly consequential. Sinclair, ever the tactician, orchestrated the setup. In the spirit of bipartisan cooperation, the government invited the leader of the opposition and key shadow ministers—including Nathan Liu, the Shadow Minister for Defence—to a series of classified military briefings. These meetings were routine enough to be plausible but laced with just enough disinformation to bait the trap.

The first meeting was relatively tame—an assessment of cyber threats and the recent undersea sabotage. Serious, but nothing world-changing.

The second briefing held several days later, escalated matters. The opposition MPs were presented with a procurement proposal: a second aircraft carrier for the Royal New Zealand Navy.

Predictably, the opposition balked.

“Another aircraft carrier?” Nathan Liu scoffed. “We barely have the personnel to crew the first one.”

A naval officer leaned in slightly. “Actually, that’s no longer true, sir. Our recruitment campaigns have seen a surge in enlistments—especially since the recent troubles began. This is about strategic deterrence. The Australians are on board. This is about sending a message.”

The shadow ministers exchanged hushed whispers. If true, this was monumental.

It was true enough to pass scrutiny, as part of the proposal, there was some very real costings and meetings with the aircraft carrier alliance in the UK, who had built the two Australasian carriers in the first place. There was just enough breadcrumbs to make it plausible, but it wasn’t true. It was just the first piece of bait.

The third meeting was where the real trap was sprung. An unmarked black folder was placed before the opposition leader. Inside: a highly classified report detailing New Zealand’s potential development of nuclear technology. This also had all the hall marks of being real, including some very convincing documents from the Auckland Institute of Technology’s engineering department, as well as some interesting reports from the engineering department of Lincoln University, also indicating the feasibility of a program. Of course, these were also fake, but Liu didn’t know that.

The reaction was immediate.

“Nuclear?” The opposition leader’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “That’s insanity. New Zealand has been nuclear-free for over fifty years! Are you seriously telling us this is even being considered?”

A senior military official, his face unreadable, tapped the folder. “We’re exploring all strategic deterrence options. The Australians are already discussing nuclear propulsion under AUKUS. We can’t afford to be left behind.” He let the moment hang before adding, “And recent… acquisitions have given us a head start.”

Nathan Liu scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious.”

Sinclair remained calm. “Gentlemen, your presence here is a courtesy extended by the Prime Minister herself. She wishes you to be informed so you can speak to your electorates. I assure you, this is being considered—but it is also highly classified, so we expect you to be discreet.”

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And that was the key. It wasn’t about convincing the opposition. It was about making sure Nathan Liu believed it just enough to report it back to Beijing.

The entire presentation was a fabrication—meticulously crafted, skilfully planted, and orchestrated with just enough plausibility to ensure it reached the Chinese Ministry of State Security.

And thanks to Liu’s network, it did.

***

The intelligence leaks from Wellington reached Beijing faster than anticipated. The MSS had ears everywhere. But what they heard sent the Politburo into a tailspin.

A second New Zealand aircraft carrier? Impossible. Even with the New Zealander’s economic rise in recent years, that kind of spending would still be considered reckless—unless the West was funding it.

Nuclear technology? No—that too was highly unlikely, New Zealand’s stance on their nuclear-free policy bordered on the psychotic in its intensity. Or had the Americans and British been preparing them in secret? With their growing wealth and strategic alignment, was Wellington positioning itself as an independent nuclear power?

The paranoia took root.

MSS analysts scrambled, their reports contradicting each other. Some dismissed the nuclear claim as disinformation, while others warned that New Zealand, now a major oil exporter, had the financial muscle to rewrite its own strategic future. The Kiwis weren’t the vulnerable backwater they had once been. It was the oil reserves that changed everything.

For decades, China had viewed New Zealand as a minor player—useful, but ultimately dependent on larger economies. That was no longer true. The discovery of vast offshore oil reserves, the rise of Koru Energy, and New Zealand’s meteoric economic expansion had transformed the nation into a geopolitical force in its own right. Wellington now wielded leverage on global energy markets. It had money, influence, and growing military capability.

And now, if the reports were true, it had ambitions.

An emergency meeting of the Politburo Standing Committee was called.

One senior official, his voice tight with fury, slammed his fist on the table. “First their submarine attack. Then this cable sabotage farce. And now they dare pursue nuclear ambitions? This is an unacceptable provocation! We must respond decisively.”

A defence strategist, calmer but visibly concerned, countered. “We cannot overreact. This could be a Western ploy to bait us into rash action. New Zealand’s oil wealth makes them strategically relevant in ways they never were before. We should focus on controlling their influence, not escalating tensions further.”

But the damage was done.

Beijing had lost the initiative. For years, China had dictated terms in the Pacific, but now, they were reacting instead of controlling the narrative. Their vast intelligence apparatus was burning resources chasing a phantom nuclear threat, their diplomatic corps was scrambling to assess how deeply Wellington was entwined with AUKUS, and worst of all—investors were growing wary.

For the first time in decades, Beijing found itself forced to consider a possibility it had long dismissed: New Zealand was no longer just a Western-aligned nation. It was a power in its own right, and if it truly was pursuing nuclear capabilities? Then the Pacific balance of power was on the verge of a seismic shift.

The Politburo meeting had adjourned, but for six of China’s most powerful figures, the real discussion was just beginning in an antechamber off the main conference room. The room itself was lavish yet intimate—plush carpets absorbed each footstep, while deep armchairs and silk-lined sofas softened the tension which still lingered like a very real threat in the air. A heavy mahogany coffee table sat in the centre, holding untouched cups of Longjing tea. Ornate lamps cast warm pools of light, but the mood remained ice-cold.

President Xiang Wei sat in the largest chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingertips pressed together in thought. The others settled into their places, but no one reached for their tea. The conversation they were about to have would determine China’s next move in the great game of power.

Zhang Rui, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, was the first to speak. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “I still cannot believe it. New Zealand. Oil-rich, economically surging, and now—now—they want nuclear propulsion? This is not the same country we dismissed a decade ago.”

Liang Qiang, the Minister of Defence, scoffed, sinking into a broad-backed leather armchair. “They played us,” he growled. “We focused on the Australians, the Japanese, the Americans… Meanwhile, this so-called ‘pacifist’ nation was consolidating power right under our noses.” His fingers tapped against the chair’s armrest. “A second aircraft carrier? Nuclear propulsion? Either they’ve lost their minds, or they’ve found backing we didn’t account for.”

General Chen Jianhong, China’s top military officer, spoke in measured tones. “If they are indeed pursuing nuclear propulsion, then AUKUS is no longer a trilateral alliance. It is expanding.” He leaned forward. “We must make sure it stops.”

Across from him, Director Sun Kai of the MSS sat back against the couch, arms crossed. He studied the room before speaking. “Our intelligence has failed us.” His voice was quiet but dangerous. “Iron Lotus’s reports did not suggest anything of this scale. Either he failed to recognize their ambitions…” He paused, letting the silence drag out. “…or he deliberately misled us.”

The implication hung heavily in the air.

Minister Wen Lian, overseeing science and technology, adjusted her silk blouse and spoke carefully. “Assuming this intelligence is accurate, we must also consider New Zealand’s capabilities. Nuclear propulsion is one thing, but nuclear weapons? That is another matter entirely and they do have our submarine.”

“But they do not have the codes,” Liang was quick to point out. “They won’t be able to use the weapons.”

“Perhaps not minister, but they are very clever, what if they manage to reverse engineer them, might I remind you, it was a New Zealander who first split the atom giving rise to this power.

President Xiang Wei finally spoke. His voice was measured, deliberate. “Enough! We cannot afford assumptions. We must act.”

Zhang Rui glanced at him. “What are you suggesting, Comrade President?”

Xiang exhaled, his fingers tightening around the armrest. “Our response must be layered. First, we expose their duplicity. If New Zealand is violating its nuclear-free stance, we ensure the world knows. If this is a fabrication, it will shake confidence in their government. Either way, we win.”

Sun Kai nodded. “Our operatives in the Pacific can feed narratives to sympathetic media outlets. Frame this as a betrayal of their principles—New Zealand dragging the Pacific into an arms race. The ASEAN nations will not welcome this development.”

Liang Qiang, ever the hawk, leaned forward. “Diplomatic pressure is not enough. We must remind them of their vulnerabilities.”

General Chen’s eyes darkened. “The cable was a warning. But if they insist on escalating, we have other means.”

A knowing silence filled the room.

Direct economic disruption. Naval posturing. New Zealand’s trade routes, its telecommunications networks, its financial systems—China had levers to pull.

Wen Lian folded her hands in her lap. “And if they are serious? If they pursue nuclear propulsion despite our warnings?”

Xiang Wei’s expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, he spoke. “Then we ensure that they regret it! We must not let our plans unravel, we have worked too long and hard at them.”

The discussion was over. The game had changed.

And in the great chessboard of the Pacific, New Zealand had just become a piece worth eliminating.

***

Beijing wasted no time in executing its counterattack. Orders were issued from Zhongnanhai, and across the Asia-Pacific, Chinese diplomats, corporate executives, and intelligence operatives set their plans into motion.

Using its economic leverage, China pressured its regional allies and dependent trading partners to enact embargoes and sanctions against New Zealand. Some, like Cambodia and Laos, complied immediately. Others, like Indonesia and Malaysia, hesitated but ultimately imposed selective restrictions under intense diplomatic pressure.

The impact on New Zealand’s economy was negligible—its wealth and diversified trade network shielded it from immediate harm. However, the real objective was achieved: the world took notice. Global markets wavered, analysts debated whether New Zealand’s economic rise was sustainable under such geopolitical stress, and investors began asking difficult questions.

Then came the information warfare.

Across the Pacific, MSS assets funnelled intelligence—real, fabricated, and everything in between—into the media. Reports surfaced in pro-China news outlets, claiming New Zealand was secretly pursuing nuclear propulsion under the guise of “strategic deterrence.” Some went even further, whispering that a covert weapons program might already be in development.

Western intelligence agencies quickly identified a coordinated disinformation campaign and warned their governments, but the damage had been done. The mere suggestion of nuclear ambition was enough to sow uncertainty. But, Wellington did not sit idle. The government opened its doors to international inspectors, throwing back the accusation with an unprecedented level of transparency.

“If Beijing insists on these outrageous claims,” Prime Minister Miriama Kahu declared in a press conference, “then let the world see for itself. We are, and always have been, a staunchly nuclear-free nation.”

The invitation was a masterstroke. Almost immediately, China’s narrative began to unravel. Independent analysts, UN observers, and even traditionally neutral nations like Switzerland and Sweden verified that New Zealand had no nuclear weapons program.

The response in Beijing was swift and furious.

The breaking point came at the United Nations General Assembly. The chamber was tense as the Chinese delegate, Ambassador Zhao Cheng, took the floor.

“The People’s Republic of China,” Zhao began, his voice dripping with righteous indignation, “has irrefutable intelligence that New Zealand is engaged in nuclear proliferation. We demand full accountability!”

Across the room, New Zealand’s UN Ambassador, James Fletcher, adjusted his tie, waiting for Zhao to finish. When the Chinese delegate finally took his seat, Fletcher stood.

“Mr President,” he began, addressing the assembly, “New Zealand does not, has not, and will not develop nuclear weapons. Unlike some, we do not operate in the shadows. Our nuclear-free policy is enshrined in law and national identity. And, to prove it, we have invited full international inspections—something our accusers have notably not done with their own clandestine naval bases in the South Pacific. Though we do welcome the chance for my esteemed colleague to present his evidence.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. Zhao’s face darkened.

Fletcher wasn’t finished. He gestured to the delegation tables. “We understand that China is embarrassed. That their intelligence services—so confident in their abilities—have been thoroughly deceived by their own informants. But might I suggest that rather than fabricating baseless accusations, they take a hard look at their own vulnerabilities?”

A low chuckle spread through the assembly.

Zhao shot to his feet. “This is an outrage!” he shouted.

Fletcher leaned forward, smiling. “If the truth is an outrage to you, Ambassador Zhao, I suggest you take it up with your bosses mate.”

The chamber erupted into laughter—Western diplomats, Pacific allies, even some African nations who had grown weary of Beijing’s strong-arm tactics.

Zhao Cheng, red-faced and humiliated, swept up his papers, snarled something in Mandarin, and stormed out of the chamber.

The laughter followed him out the door.

Beijing had played its hand—and lost.

The embargoes were rescinded, the disinformation campaign collapsed under its own weight, and the international humiliation at the UN—all of it cost China dearly. The world had watched them overplay their influence, and instead of isolating New Zealand, they had strengthened its global standing.

In Zhongnanhai, behind closed doors, President Xiang Wei seethed.

In the Pacific, the Chinese added further pressure to the New Zealanders and Australians, sending more of their smaller warships and submarines south.

In Wellington, standing at her office window, Miriama Kahu, wondered if they may have pushed too far.