Turning sharply to a nearby comms officer, Vice Admiral Malachi Mason snapped, “Alert Admiral Garrett on Enterprise! Let her know our intent. She’s welcome to join us, but we are NOT waiting!”

The comms officer nodded sharply, fingers already dancing across the console as he transmitted the message. There was no time for hesitation—the battlefield was shifting, the enemy pressing, and Mason knew that every second lost meant another grave filled, another family shattered, another soul consumed by the sea.

Beyond the bridge’s armored glass, the carnage of war stretched from horizon to horizon, a tableau of ruin painted in fire and steel. The scent of burning fuel and scorched metal tainted the wind, carried over the waves by the same indifferent sea that had swallowed so many. Smoke curled into the sky in thick, ugly columns, the last desperate cries of shattered ships. Explosions flickered in the distance—secondary detonations as dying vessels finally gave way to the abyss. The Achilles led the charge through it all, her weapons blazing, her steel unyielding, a defiant bastion in an ocean of wreckage.

Beneath Mason’s feet, the HMNZS Tangaroa’s three powerful Rolls-Royce MT30 marine gas turbines howled as they cranked harder, pushing the ship's Integrated Full Electric Propulsion system to its limits. The massive 81,000-ton aircraft carrier surged forward at flank speed, a reckless high speed dash, cutting through the turbulent sea like a leviathan woken to wrath. This was not a mission of destruction—it was one of mercy.

Mason exhaled, steadying himself against the rail of the command deck. His fragile command had been sorely tested, and they come away badly bloodied. At least he didn’t have to worry about the Western Group—he had received reports from Admirals Harrington, Pembroke, and Cunningham. The HMS Queen Elizabeth had taken a direct hit from a carrier-killer missile, the forward island scorched and buckled, but her redundancies had held. She was bruised, not broken. The HMAS Melbourne and HMS Ark Royal remained unscathed, their battle groups holding firm.

But here? Here was devastation.

The Carl Vinson and Abraham Lincoln’s combined air wings were being kept aloft by the tireless efforts of MQ-25 Stingray refuelling drones launched and recovered from the Tangaroa and Enterprise, their endurance the only thing keeping the sky from turning into a graveyard.

As Tangaroa closed in, her flight deck became a storm of activity. MH-60R Seahawks and CVM-22 Ospreys took off in rapid succession, launching into the maelstrom on continuous search-and-rescue sorties. Enterprise was no different, with the helos from the rest of the fleet, the sky was filled with the rotor blade hum of crisscrossing aircraft. The airwaves were choked with distress calls, clipped responses, and the occasional broken transmission that trailed off into silence. Mason gritted his teeth.

All told, the Americans had lost a carrier, two cruisers, and six destroyers. That was thousands of men and women, brave sailors all, there was no way Tangaroa and Enterprise could save them all, but they would damn well try.

As the first helicopters reached the debris field, the horror became all too real. Wreckage and bodies drifted amid the twisted remnants of warships; their once-proud hulls reduced to jagged ruins. Some of the debris still burned, flames licking at the oil-slicked water, creating a hellish tapestry of smoke and fire. Those ships still floating but without power, were preparing to take a tow, from those that were able to offer it, and through it all, the rescue crews did what they could.

Pilots hovered precariously over the wreckage, pushing their machines to the limit in the swirling heat and fumes. Rescue swimmers plunged into the dark water, risking their own lives to haul injured sailors from the abyss. Medics worked frantically in the cramped confines of helicopters, stabilizing the dying as much as they were able before rushing them back to the waiting flight decks, where triage teams stood ready.

The battlefield was no longer one of missiles and gunfire. Now, it was a race against time.

A race Mason refused to lose. Amid it all was the Achilles, a silent sentinel a guardian, a shepherd protecting her flock and around the edges prowled the ANZAC’s frigates and Destroyers, keeping the wolves away.

***

Wellington – Beehive War Room

In Wellington, the War Council was reeling. The shock—not just of what had happened, but of how fast it had happened—was staggering.

Prime Minister Miriama Kahu stood at the head of the long oak table in the Beehive’s secure bunker, both hands braced against the polished wood. Her face, usually composed and resolute, was pale with tension. The air was thick with the stale scent of coffee, and the murmur of men and women struggling to process the unthinkable.

Screens lining the walls flickered with a grim symphony of a war beginning—satellite feeds, scrambled distress calls, damage and casualty reports. The Chinese attack had been swift, brutal, and effective. An entire American carrier group gone and two others crippled, the Western Pacific in flames, and now, war loomed on every front. But their defences had held, Miriama knew that it could have been a lot worse, and for the first time, she silently thanked the previous government for their preparations.

Minister of Defence Kevin MacNielty exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "This isn’t a skirmish. This isn’t another cold war push. This is it. They want the world, and they’re fucking coming for it."

Across from him, Foreign Affairs Minister Derek Harper leaned back, his jaw clenched. "We've barely had time to coordinate a response. Half the bloody world is still waking up to this nightmare."

NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair placed a folder on the table—thick, marked ‘Eyes Only’, a red stamp across the cover. His voice was flat, professional, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

"We have multiple confirmations. Taiwan is under siege. North Korea is on the move—looks like a full-scale invasion. And," he hesitated, glancing at Kahu, "Beijing has made it clear: this is just the beginning."

Silence.

Then Air Marshal Jonathan Robson, Chief of Defence Force, cleared his throat. "If we don’t act now, we’ll be reacting for the rest of this war. We need to make the hard decisions now."

Kahu exhaled. The weight of history pressed down on her. War.

There was no more debate. No more warnings. No more diplomatic avenues.

"Alright," she said, her voice low but firm. "Then we move. Effective immediately, we act as though New Zealand is at war. We will declare it publicly shortly, but for now, let’s get things moving"

She turned to MacNielty. "All right Kevin, I want an honest no bullshit 100 percent assessment of our capabilities and a full deployment schedule in the next hour. What do we have ready to fight?"

The defence minister leaned forward, flipping open a thick leather-bound briefing book. "At this moment? The last two Achilles-class cruisers Gallipoli and El Alamein are still undergoing trials, but everything appears good so far, we can push them into service early. The rest of the fleet is either at sea already or preparing to go to sea. Our carrier group—Tangaroa and her escorts—is combat-ready and engaged in rescue operations with the Americans. And Canterbury and Greymouth were ordered to do an onsite inspection of Guam."

Army Chief Lieutenant General Willy Clarkson tapped the table. "Our forces in the Solomons are already fortifying key positions. We’re working with the Aussies the British and the Canadians to hold the line there ‘Wattle-Koru’ was made for this situation. But we still need time to move more forces, or put them in the right spots, I hate to say it, because of how callous it sounds, but I hope Taiwan can hold them for a while, if China pushes into the Philippines now, the entire theatre will collapse in a matter of weeks. We don’t have the numbers for a full Pacific land war—not yet."

Kahu turned to Major General Max Jamison, the head of New Zealand’s Special Operations Command. His face was shadowed with fatigue, eyes sharp but tired.

"How soon can we have your units in the fight? We need to slow them down."

Jamison’s answer was immediate. "We’re already moving, Prime Minister. The moment you give the order; we’ll be on the way."

Air Vice Marshal Tania Grey, Chief of the Air Force, spoke next. "We’re committing every available ISR aircraft to the search and rescue, with the remaining P-8 Poseidons, MQ-8B Sky Guardians and MQ-4C Tritons sweeping the Pacific for enemy movements. Our F-15s and FA-50s are ready to scramble in case of another attack. Make no mistake—our skies are about to become a battleground."

Miriama regarded her lifelong friend closely for a moment. “Air Marshal Grey,” she started, though it sounded so foreign to her.” I want you to prepare to move your forces stationed in Australia to the Solomans, we were going to do it anyway to get them into better position, this just speeds up the timetable.”

Grey nodded and Miriama gave her friend a small smile of appreciation, before turning to Harper. “Derek, you’ll need to clear that with the Soloman government, I doubt they’ll have an issue with it but better keep things above board for now.”

Derek Harper also nodded affirmatively and stood to find a quiet corner to make that phone call.

Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick was the next to speak. “We’ve called up all remaining reserves to man additional patrol assets, we have six reserve Lake-class OPV’s specifically for this purpose that are getting ready to sail, we need to guard our Southern approaches, and our submarines are overtaxed as it is, but holding steady.”

A heavy silence settled over the room.

This was no longer about policy or planning. The war had come.

Kahu straightened, her Pounamu Hei Matau catching the dim light as she scanned the table. She saw hardened soldiers, seasoned politicians, intelligence chiefs who had spent their careers in the shadows. They had always known war was a possibility.

Now, it was reality.

She took a breath.

"Then let’s be clear. We don’t just survive this. We don’t just hold the line. We fight. We take the war to them. And we win."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

No one objected.

The war had begun, and she had a few calls to make.

***

Secure Line – Wellington & Canberra

The secure line clicked, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. New Zealand Prime Minister Miriama Kahu and Australian Prime Minister John Mitchell sat in their respective war rooms, staring at their respective maps, absorbing the unthinkable.

Mitchell was the first to break the silence. His voice was quiet, rough with exhaustion.

"Miri… bloody hell."

Kahu exhaled, pressing her fingers against her temple. "Yeah."

A long pause. The weight of it all hung between them—the devastation of the American fleet, the rising smoke on the horizon, the knowledge that their nations stood on the brink of something far greater than themselves.

"We always knew it might come to this," Mitchell continued. "But Christ, not like this. Not this fast. At least our defences held, mostly, that was money well spent!"

Kahu nodded, though he couldn’t see it. "Not this fast." She swallowed, steeling herself. "You’ve been my rock through all this john, I hope you know that, and I hope you know howe much I appreciate it. How’s your end holding up?"

"Holding. So are you Miri, so are you."

Neither had lost people yet. Their forces remained intact, but the storm was coming.

Mitchell let out a slow, measured breath. "You don’t have to ask, Miri. You already know where we stand."

"I know. But I still needed to hear it."

Mitchell’s voice dropped lower, firmer. "ANZAC doesn’t sit on the sidelines. Not when our mates are bleeding. Not when our allies are burning."

Kahu closed her eyes for a brief second. "Then we move together."

A beat.

Mitchell sighed, “together!” Then asked, "What about Iran?"

Kahu hesitated. It was the unspoken spectre looming behind everything else. China was already an unthinkable enemy—but Iran? That was another front entirely.

"If Carter asks, we answer."

Mitchell was silent for a long moment. "And if she does?"

Kahu’s voice was steady. "Then we go to war. Proper war. World War fucking Three."

Mitchell let out a slow breath, rubbing his face. "Jesus!" Another pause. Then, quieter: "You sure?"

Kahu’s answer was immediate. "No, but it is in the best interests of the alliance. And if we hesitate, we may not have a choice later."

Mitchell sat with that for a moment, then gave a single, firm nod. "Then we wait for Carter. And when she calls…"

Kahu finished for him. "We answer."

A final breath. A final pause.

Then, Mitchell's voice hardened. "So, we’re invoking Article 51 against China then. We’re going to war."

Kahu nodded, her grip tightening on the receiver.

"We’re going to war John."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then the line went dead.

***

Secure Line – Wellington & London

Minutes later the secure line crackled to life again. Miriama took a steadying breath as Richard Winslow came through on the other end. The British Prime Minister sounded drained but resolute.

"Miriama."

"Richard."

A pause. No words could fully capture what had just happened. The devastation in the Pacific, the losses, the sheer speed of it all.

Winslow sighed. "We’ve been through hell before, haven’t we?"

Kahu’s voice was firm. "And we’ve come through it every time."

"We’re with you." Winslow didn’t hesitate. "Our Fleet in the Pacific is yours to command, and our forces are already moving into position. Ark Royal and Queen Elizabeth are at your disposal

"I need to know where you stand, Richard."

Winslow exhaled. "We invoke Article 51 obviously. The UK stands with its allies. With New Zealand. With Australia. With Canada and America. I see no other option"

Kahu nodded. "Then we move together."

Winslow’s voice dipped lower. "And Iran?"

She hesitated. This was the question now, the moment where everything could spiral further. "If Carter asks, we answer. If this is to be a war, then we fight it on our terms, not theirs."

A long pause. Then, Winslow’s voice hardened. "Then we prepare for a long war."

Kahu’s fingers curled into a fist. "We prepare for victory."

The line cut out.

***

Secure Line – Wellington & Ottawa

The line connected for a third time, and Thomas Bouchard didn’t waste any of it.

"Miriama, tell me straight—how bad is it?"

Kahu didn’t sugarcoat it. "The Americans have lost two carriers so far. Six destroyers. Two cruisers. Guam is gone. The Chinese are moving on Taiwan, and it looks like North Korea is preparing to move on the South. It’s not good Thomas."

Bouchard let out a quiet curse. "Fucks sake!" A beat. "And New Zealand?"

"We’re still standing."

"So is Canada."

The weight of the moment settled between them. Their countries had fought together in every major conflict since the Boer War. There was no question they would again.

"Thomas, I need to hear it from you."

Bouchard’s voice was firm. "Canada stands with its allies. If you’re plan is to invoke Article 51. Then so will we, we’ll go to war."

Kahu exhaled, a mix of relief and the grim acceptance of what came next. "Then we move together."

Bouchard didn’t hesitate. "We do. But Miriama… what about Iran?"

Another pause. Then, carefully: "If Carter asks, we answer."

Bouchard was silent for a moment. Then, a quiet sigh. "That would mean full-scale global war."

Kahu nodded. "It would. But hesitation could cost us more in the long run. We need to be ready."

A long pause. Then, finally, Bouchard’s voice came through with steel.

"Then we get ready."

The line went dead.

***

White House Situation Room | Beehive, Wellington

The secure line crackled to life one more time. Miriama gripped the receiver tighter than she needed to, as if bracing herself for what she already knew would be one of the hardest conversations of her career. The war council had barely adjourned, and the weight of the moment pressed heavy on her chest. Across the Pacific, thousands of miles away, Ellen Carter had likely not slept—if she’d had the luxury of even trying.

"Madam President," Kahu said, voice steadier than she felt.

"Madam Prime Minister," Carter responded, exhaustion woven into every syllable. There was a long pause before she exhaled sharply. "Miri, I—I don’t even know what to say."

Kahu closed her eyes for a brief moment. The Americans had lost thousands. An entire carrier, two cruisers, six destroyers, the strikes on Guam, Japan and all the other lives lost—just gone. Men and women who’d woken up that morning thinking they had more time. Thinking they’d go home.

"Neither do I," Kahu admitted. “I’m so sorry Ellen…”

Carter let out a sharp breath, more a broken laugh than anything else. "You ever read about Pearl Harbor? About how Roosevelt felt that day? I used to think it was history—something we studied, something we learned from. And now? It’s happened again. On my watch."

Kahu's throat tightened. Pearl Harbor. The thought sat there, raw and ugly between them. This wasn’t some isolated skirmish. This was history being rewritten in real time.

"Ellen," Kahu said carefully, "this isn't on you. China did this. You didn’t fire the first shot."

"Didn’t I?" Carter whispered. "Didn’t we? The sanctions, the posturing, the alliances. Maybe we—"

"No." Kahu’s voice was iron. "No second-guessing. No doubt. You and I both know that if we had bent the knee, they would have taken that as weakness. This was always coming."

Silence. Then, Carter exhaled, more controlled this time.

"You're right."

Kahu pressed forward. "John, Thomas, Richard and I are in agreement. CANZUK will invoke Article 51 of the UN Charter. We will declare war."

Carter's response was instant. "Then so will the United States."

The words hung between them like a funeral bell.

"And Iran?" Carter asked, voice quieter now.

Kahu hesitated. "If you ask it of us, yes. But not before. This war is already bigger than we can grasp, and if we open that front..."

"It becomes a world war."

"Yes."

Carter sighed. "I need time to think, but not much. Not much at all."

Kahu nodded, even though Carter couldn’t see her. She already knew what the answer would be.

"Ellen," she said, voice softer now, "we are with you. ANZAC always stands. And this time, we won’t be fighting alone."

Another beat of silence, then Carter whispered, "God help us all."

The line went dead.

***

North of Fiji | HMNZS Canterbury | Pacific Ocean

The bridge of HMNZS Canterbury was a quiet storm of controlled chaos. The dim glow of console screens flickered against the bulkheads, the hum of electronics blending with the occasional bursts of static from comms. Outside the reinforced glass, the Pacific stretched endlessly, the soft, rhythmic crash of waves belying the horror that lay further north.

Captain Caleb Rawlinson stood near the central console, arms crossed, gaze locked on the horizon. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was broad-shouldered, his blue uniform fatigues crisp despite the long hours and oppressive Pacific heat. The weight of command pressed on him tonight heavier than ever before.

To his right, Commander James Benson, Canterbury’s executive officer, adjusted his earpiece, his brow furrowed. Lieutenant Commander Kate Miller, the ship’s primary warfare officer and third in command, leaned against a bulkhead, arms folded. Beside her, Lieutenant Commander Thomas Paterson, the ship’s chief engineer, remained in the doorway, fingers drumming idly against the steel as he reviewed the latest situational report.

The silence in the room was thick—not the comfortable silence of a crew working in sync, but the hollow stillness that comes when the world changes too fast for the mind to catch up.

Finally, Rawlinson broke it. “Shall we step outside for a minute?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned and stepped through the open doorway onto the bridge wing. The others followed, and the captain dismissed the lookouts, giving them a moment of privacy.

"Fuck me, Skipper!" Benson’s voice was low but heavy with disbelief.

Rawlinson exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You’re not wrong, EX-O."

The early evening sky was filled with distorted colours—sickly oranges and grays bleeding into the horizon. He glanced down at the printed report in his hand. The satellite imagery of Guam showed thick plumes of black and gray dust still obscuring the coastline. Even from orbit, the devastation was evident. The once-proud naval base—the heart of American power in the Pacific—was now a graveyard of twisted steel and fire. The airbase lay in ruins.

"They hit it hard," Miller murmured. "Too hard."

Paterson snorted, rubbing his jaw. "No such thing as 'too hard' in war. There’s just effective and excessive. China didn’t just want to cripple the U.S. presence in the Pacific. They wanted to bury it."

"And they damn near succeeded," Benson muttered.

Rawlinson turned back toward the open sea; his voice quiet but firm. "We still don’t have full satellite clarity. The dust clouds will take days to clear, and the Americans haven’t been able to get manned reconnaissance in. That’s why we’re here. The eyes on the ground."

Paterson exhaled. "Boss, with all due respect—are we really going to pretend this isn’t already war?"

Rawlinson looked at him sharply.

Paterson held his gaze. "They sank two American carriers—one with her entire battle group. Destroyed two major bases, maybe more. We’ve got reports of strikes near Japan. This wasn’t some border skirmish, some fishing dispute, or a rogue missile in the Taiwan Strait. This was coordinated."

Miller shifted uncomfortably. "We still haven’t formally invoked Article 51 yet. The Americans haven’t even publicly declared war."

"They will," Benson said grimly.

Rawlinson nodded. "They don’t have a choice. And neither do we."

For a moment, no one spoke. The implications were too vast, the history too heavy.

Rawlinson finally turned to Paterson. “Tom, how’s the ship? Are we ready to fight?”

Paterson straightened, his voice steady. “Absolutely, boss. We’re tip-top.”

Rawlinson turned to Miller. “Kate, weapons systems?”

Miller’s expression was resolute. "Everything’s good, boss. My people are ready." Her eyes hardened. "This won’t be like last time. This time we’ll shoot back. We won’t lose this one."

Rawlinson gave her an appreciative nod.

Benson exhaled, rubbing his face before asking the unspoken question. "So, what’s our play?"

Rawlinson’s gaze returned to the horizon, his expression hardening. "We do our job. We gather intel. We make sure that when Wellington signs that declaration... they know exactly what they're stepping into."

Miller swallowed, her fingers tightening around her folded arms. "And if we find what we already know we will?"

Rawlinson’s answer was simple.

"Then we prepare to fight."

For a fleeting moment, his thoughts drifted. Sarah. Cody. He knew they were safe—for now. The few missiles that had slipped through hadn’t come anywhere close to them, or anything else vital. But that didn’t stop the gnawing worry in his chest.

The sense of peace he’d clung to was slipping away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

And as he looked at his officers, he knew they were all thinking the same thing.

***

Philippine Sea HMNZS Tangaroa

They were heading south. The two battered air groups had already withdrawn, limping away from the fight to land at forward bases in the Solomons and Papua New Guinea before continuing on to temporary homes in Australia. For now, they were out of the fight, their flightdecks scarred, their squadrons bloodied.

The Americans were the walking wounded—battered ships and weary crews, their steel and spirit tested. But the Kiwis wouldn’t let them falter. They would see them home, shepherding them through the vast Pacific, warding off any shadow that might threaten their retreat. It wasn’t just duty; it was something deeper. The New Zealanders had been in the thick of it too, and they knew that this was no defeat—just a moment to catch their breath.

Safe harbour awaited. There, the decks would be patched, the magazines refilled, and the men given a chance to rest. But only for a while. Soon enough, the guns would thunder again, and the enemy would learn what came of striking at the heart of the Pacific’s defenders.