Zhongnanhai Leadership Compound – Beijing. February 3rd, 2040. 01.22LT

  The cold had returned to Beijing, seeping even through the ancient stones of Zhongnanhai. Within the west pavilion, on a covered and screened balcony overlooking the silent gardens, the President stood barefoot, clothed only in a ceremonial white cloth tied at the waist — not for his own modesty, but to spare the sensibilities of the staff. He did not care who saw him. It was never about appearances.

  The air was sharp with winter bite, but his movements never wavered. He flowed through the postures in silence — each deliberate turn and breath carved from memory. Every morning since childhood, he had performed the full Yang-style long form — one hundred and ten postures — as taught to him by his father. No deviation. No compromise. Even now, at sixty-seven, his wiry frame bore the imprint of discipline — a body not merely preserved, but hardened.

  Behind him, one of his aides stood quietly, posture still, breath visible in the chill air. He kept his eyes respectfully averted, but not before catching a glimpse of the President’s bare back — muscles shifting beneath skin like drawn bowstrings, rippling with each turn. There was a hypnotic violence in the serenity of it.

  The aide knew better than to interrupt. He waited. Only when President Xiang entered Shōu Shì — the Closing Form — letting his arms fall gently to his sides and bringing his feet together, did the silence yield.

  The President turned, retrieving the towel draped neatly over the adjacent cedar chair.

  “What is it?” he asked, voice low and flat.

  “Comrade President, your eight o'clock has arrived. They are waiting in your dining room. I have arranged for your breakfast to be served. Would you like me to provide additional settings?”

  Xiang's eyes narrowed — not at the question, but something deeper, more simmering.

  “No,” he said, a hint of ice beneath the surface. “They will not be here that long.”

  He took his time dressing. First the tunic, then the robe — each layer drawn on with the same precision he applied to his martial forms, to every aspect of his life. He knew they were waiting. That was the point. Discipline was power, but control of time was sovereignty. The robe was a deep midnight blue, the fabric soft as breath, edged in a muted crimson silk that whispered of old dynasties and the authority of bloodlines long since passed. He fastened the gold-flecked toggles slowly, methodically, listening to the wind whistle softly through the bare branches outside the balcony.

  In the stillness of the room, he dabbed a few drops of sandalwood oil along the curve of his neck, then slipped his hands into the sleeves. He stood motionless for several long seconds — not out of vanity, but because he understood something the younger men did not. Power was not proven through volume or motion. It was measured in the quiet between commands. The waiting itself became the test.

  Only when a soft knock came at the inner screen door did he finally move.

  “Proceed,” he said.

  And with that, he turned and strode toward the warmth of the private dining room, leaving only the faint scent of incense and iron behind.

  Inside the room, warm amber downlights glowed overhead, painting sharp shadows across the lacquered table. A coal brazier flickered softly in the wall alcove, its embers casting dancing patterns across the floor tiles. The windows were steamed faintly from within, and the scent of jujube and sesame oil hung in the air.

  President Xiang Wei sat motionless, hands steepled. Before him sat a traditional breakfast tray: a shallow bowl of congee steamed gently in its clay vessel, flanked by pickled mustard greens, a pair of tea eggs marbled in dark soy, and a still-warm youtiao — the long fried dough stick nestled on a separate plate beside a cup of hot, sweetened soy milk, his only concession and a closely guarded secret amongst the kitchen staff. The meal had been prepared in the Suzhou style, simple but elegant.

  The President had not touched it. The soft rasp of his breathing was the only sound.

  Then, with no announcement or command, he began to eat — slowly, systematically from the inside out, as though alone.

  Admiral Liu Zhenhai cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “Comrade President. Regarding the carrier fleet... we have completed a full audit of our capabilities as you requested, and I can now present our revised asset readiness and replacement timeline.”

  President Xiang gestured with his chopsticks, a flick of the wrist that sent a few stray grains of rice onto the white linen tablecloth. He did not acknowledge it, nor did he care.

  "We began the war with ten carriers," Liu said. "The Liaoning, Shandong, and Fujian comprised our first step conventional efforts. While our seven Type-004 nuclear-powered carriers formed the backbone of our strategic strike capability. As of this week, all three conventional carriers have been lost in combat. Two Type-004s have been destroyed, and a third remains heavily damaged and in drydock in Qingdao, out of service for at least another ten months."

  He paused, then added grimly, "The losses at the Battle of the Bismarck Sea have dealt a serious blow to our blue-water capability. One Type-004 was struck by multiple anti-ship missiles and went down with most of her air wing. Another was forced to limp back to port under escort, burning and listing. She will not sail again until well into next year."

  President Xiang did not move. His eyes were fixed on the small digital display the admiral had set at the end of the table, where red-outlined silhouettes of lost vessels flickered faintly.

  "So we have four operational carriers," he said at last. "And one crippled."

  "Yes, Comrade President. But we have reinforcements coming."

  General Chen Jianhong shifted his weight, his voice clipped. "Explain."

  Admiral Liu brought up a second display. The ghostly outlines of warships under construction appeared — wireframe models drifting over a black ocean.

  "Two Type-003 carriers, constructed primarily to replace the Shandong and Liaoning for South China Sea operations, were already nearing completion when the war began. They have now completed trials. They will be fully operational by late May or June of this year, at the latest. These will not replace the Type-004s in power projection, but they restore regional striking power and replenish our carrier air group capacity."

  Minister Liang Qiang, seated opposite the President, leaned forward. "How many Type-004s are being built currently?"

  "Three, Comrade Minister. Two were well into final outfitting as of April. We accelerated construction to wartime tempo. They are expected to begin sea trials by the fourth quarter of this year. The third hull is on the blocks at Jiangnan Shipyard and has reached 70% structural completion. Our target is a 2042 launch and full capability by 2044."

  Liang raised an eyebrow at that statement, he the figures he had were either out of date, or the Admiral knew something that he didn’t. "And the yard conditions?"

  "Holding," Liu confirmed. "Dalian and Jiangnan are secure. Hudong-Zhonghua has doubled output on auxiliary and drone platforms. But the loss of skilled shipwrights during the that terrorist attack by pro Vietnamese rebels in Hainan last spring has affected lead times. We are still behind where we should be."

  President Xiang finally looked up. "Surface fleet status?"

  "In addition to our early losses, since we last spoke on the matter, we have lost another twenty-six major surface combatants, including the Bismarck Sea engagement," Liu said. "Six Renhai-class cruisers, including two destroyed in direct missile salvos. Seven Type-052D and 052DL destroyers. Three Luyang-class vessels.. Additionally, three Type-075 amphibious assault ships were lost during the battle. All went down with full marine complements. This equates to a roughly forty percent loss rate in the war so far."

  Chen swore under his breath, this was old news, but it was still a bitter pill to swallow. "Those were assault-ready battalions. Their loss will be felt for months!"

  "They were," Liu agreed. "We estimate over two thousand personnel lost in that operation. Due to enemy air cover over New Guinea and New Britain, we have not been able to send rescue or intelligence assets into the area to gain any real data."

  He brought up a graphic of the engagement, they had seen it before, but he needed the display for emphasis. Red streaks crossed the map from New Guinea to New Britain. A tight net of Allied submarines, aircraft, and missile strikes.

  "The enemy predicted our movements. Their electronic warfare coverage was more robust than expected. Their coordination between naval air assets and long-range strike platforms was... impressive."

  President Xiang’s brow furrowed. "Impressive?"

  Liu nodded reluctantly. "They baited our forward screen, used what we thought was a coordinated retreat, then overwhelmed our centre with a mix of carrier-based aircraft using electronic suppression and long-range Hypersonics. They had two other fleets join the battle from their forward base in Fiji and from their main base in New Zealand. Our response was too slow, and our vessels too clustered."

  Minister Liang leaned forward. "How many ships were in that task force?"

  "Three carriers, six cruisers, fifteen destroyers, five Type-075s, fourteen corvettes, and seven replenishment or auxiliary vessels. We lost over 60% of the force."

  Xiang's voice was a whisper. "A catastrophe."

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  A long silence followed.

  Finally, Xiang spoke. "We are losing ships faster than we can replace them."

  General Chen stepped in. "Which is why we have already transitioned the secondary yards in Zhoushan and Wuchang to wartime footing. They are now constructing drone support ships and high-speed replenishment hulls. But for capital ships, we must prioritise survivability."

  Xiang turned toward the wall map. The Pacific glowed in arterial red. And yet the glowing patches of blue — CANZUK and Allied naval presence — were expanding, not shrinking.

  "Treat each ship as a tool, not a symbol," he murmured. "We must resist the urge to showcase."

  He turned back to Liu. "The Type-003s will bear the weight of the next phase. But I want the Type-004s protected. Their time is coming. If they are to carry our legacy, they must reach their prime."

  "Understood," Liu said.

  "And the shipyards?"

  "They are fully prioritised for naval rearmament. Civil production has been halted at over sixty facilities. We have repurposed several civilian heavy-industry sites to support modular construction for naval platforms. The first replacement amphibious ship will be ready by March next year."

  Minister Liang raised a hand. "And the air wings?"

  Liu’s face remained impassive. "We lost over a hundred carrier aircraft at the Bismarck Sea, including four squadrons J-35s and multiple support fighters. Replacements are underway, but training aircrew will be a bottleneck. The key loss3es were the surveillance aircraft, they are fewer and harder to replace."

  "Then increase simulator hours. Remove civilian flight restrictions. Strip the civil academies if you must," Xiang said.

  No one argued.

  "We cannot afford another Bismarck," the President said coldly. "We must adapt. And we must not hesitate."

  He stood slowly. "Admiral Liu. Begin the dispersal of our remaining carrier groups. I want staggered deployments. No more clusters. No more easy targets."

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  "And General Chen. Prepare the rocket forces for strategic deep-strike retaliation. I want them reminded that every loss will be paid for."

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  Xiang’s eyes swept the table. Cold. Calm, the war would not stop. And neither would he.

  ***

  Joint Forces Command, RAAF Tindal – Northern Territory. February 4th, 2041. 10.17LT

  The heat hit like a hammer the moment the cabin door cracked. Northern Territory air — dry, heavy, sunburnt — as if the land itself resented the intrusion of uniformed men and polished boots. Vice Admiral Malachi Mason stepped onto the tarmac with a quiet exhale, his blue at sea fatigues already creased with sweat before his aides could catch up.

  Tindal was buzzing. Maintenance crews, airframe technicians, strike planners, and a half-dozen different accents moving in calculated purpose. Australia’s north was the Alliance’s new hinge point — the place where Pacific strategy met Indian Ocean urgency. And Mason had work to do.

  Rebuild. Retrain. Refocus.

  It wasn’t glamour. But it was necessary.

  The staff car that met him was nothing special — a plain Defence Force Hawkei transport, scuffed but clean, with a driver who offered only a nod. Mason slid into the front without a word, watching the ochre landscape roll by. He didn’t need chatter. What he needed was clarity.

  Joint Forces Operations Command sat just off the main runways — a low-slung, blast-hardened two story building surrounded by fencing, eucalyptus trees, and the ever-present drone of cooling units. He was met at the main entrance by a security detail who checked his identification thoroughly, then passed swiftly through the gates and into the air-conditioned sterility of the inner sanctum.

  Waiting inside was the man himself.

  General Hunter Davidson.

  Newly appointed Supreme Commander, CANZUK Forces — SAC-CANZUK, though Mason thought the acronym made him sound like either a rapper or a villain from a Saturday morning cartoon. Not that Davidson gave a damn what anyone thought of the title. The Australian four-star was broad, sun-scarred, and built like a boulder that had decided to lead an army. His handshake was firm, dry, and brief.

  “Mason,” Davidson said. “I’ve heard good things.”

  “I’m not sure all of them were true,” Mason replied.

  That got the faintest flicker of a smile. Not a warm one — more like the first flex of a muscle not used in a while.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Davidson’s office was about as decorative as a bunker wall. Grey concrete. A map of the Indo-Pacific. A status board showing carrier groups, drone lanes, air tasking orders. The only personal touch was two small photos on the desk — kids, probably grandchildren. Otherwise, it might as well have been a forward command tent.

  Davidson motioned him to a seat with a tilt of his chin.

  “We’re short on time, so I’ll be blunt,” he said. “What’s left of your carrier group’s still in triage, and we’ve got holes to plug from Port Moresby to Penang. I need to know if you can pull your task forces back into fighting shape — fast.”

  Mason sat. Didn’t posture. “You’ll get results. But I’m not going to paint over cracks.”

  “Didn’t think you would,” Davidson replied. “You Kiwis have a habit of calling things as they are, I’ve always respected that.”

  “You Aussies have a habit of giving us the scraps and calling it a banquet.” Mason eyed the General closely. “I’ve never respected that, but I do respect honesty.”

  That brought the smile back, slightly wider this time. “Maybe. But you turned those scraps into a steel wall in the Bismarck. That buys you my respect at least.”

  It wasn’t praise — not exactly — but it was something. Between them sat an unspoken truth: the war wasn’t going to be won by chest-thumping or political spin. It was going to be won by people who knew what the hell they were doing — even if they didn’t always agree on the details.

  “I want to reroute some of your simulator time,” Mason said, opening his satchel and sliding a tablet across the desk. “Our new Sea Gripen crews need high-G strike profiles in contested airspace. We’re tweaking doctrine for the Amphibs. If they can’t learn to flex, we lose them on day one.”

  Davidson scanned the file, then nodded. “Approved. What else?”

  “Satellite bandwidth for my training groups. We’re not going to beat the Chinese with half-assed targeting telemetry.”

  “You’ll get it — but I’m pulling it off Joint Task 64, so make it count.”

  Mason nodded. There were no pleasantries, no posturing — just logistics, timelines, and what would kill people if they got it wrong. Mason found himself grudgingly appreciating the directness. He’d worked with too many peacocks in pressed uniforms and spotless offices. Davidson wasn’t one of them. He was a hammer looking for steel to shape.

  As the meeting wrapped, Mason stood and extended his hand again.

  “Thanks for the straight talk General,” he said. “We need some time to rebuild, but so do they, and we have plans to ruin their day and slow them down some more.”

  “Just remember,” Davidson replied, “we don’t have time to admire our bruises. Not in this theatre.”

  Mason paused at the door. “Understood.”

  And as he stepped back out into the corridor, he realised something else. This wasn’t just another assignment. It was the new frontline — fire and rain, steel and silence. The Bismarck had been the bloodletting. Now came the rebuild.

  And Mason intended to make it count.

  ***

  Satellite Analysis Suite, HMNZS Irirangi – Waiouru. February 20th, 2040. 13.22LT

  The room was cold, despite the thermal regulation. Something about underground facilities always felt clammy — recycled air, white lights, the hum of processors. On the far wall, a massive projection of the South China coast pulsed in soft green overlays, ringed with heat sigs and construction timestamps.

  “Again,” said Senior Analyst Kieran Laughton, adjusting the contrast filter on his console. “I want thermal delta comparisons between January fifth and February tenth. Same orbital path. Grid overlay 17 through 24.”

  His partner leaned over, typing commands into the auxiliary station. “Pulling now. Cross-checking with ST-12 and ST-14 flyovers… Got it. That’s Jiangnan, Hudong, Dalian… all three.”

  On the screen, the industrial zones lit up like embers.

  Kieran leaned back slightly. “Jesus.”

  “I know.” The second analyst — Samir Dev — frowned. “Thermal signature’s up thirty-two percent across Jiangnan since the new year. Hudong’s showing heavy output — low signature, but steady. And Dalian—” he paused. “Looks like they’ve expanded the southern blocks. That wasn’t there in December.”

  Kieran didn’t respond at first. His eyes were fixed on the new data flooding the overlay. Thousands of micro-adjustments: new cranes, additional rail feeds, tarmac clearing. Foundations being poured at unnatural speed.

  “Check timestamps on materials delivery,” he said finally. “Cross-reference with SAR shipping data from last week.”

  “Already running it,” Samir said. “They’ve doubled inbound steel since late January. Reinforced grades too — carrier-capable hull plating. Most of it routed through southern Qingdao before redirecting inland.”

  Kieran grunted. “They’re laying new hulls. At least two.”

  “Three,” Samir corrected. “Dalian’s running triple shifts. They’ve even reactivated old berthing slips — the ones they mothballed in ‘36.”

  Kieran looked up sharply. “You’re sure?”

  “I cross-checked with a weather sat pass from the Indian Ocean. Random pass — caught heat bloom and anti-radiation shielding installation. That’s not for surface ships. That’s for reactors.”

  He let the silence stretch.

  “Type-004s?” Kieran asked.

  “Almost certainly. Or a derivative. And that’s just the heavy platforms. We’ve tagged twelve new destroyer hulls in preliminary construction — eight of them likely Renhai-class or modified variants. Plus at least four amphibious hulls on the drydocks at Hudong-Zhonghua.”

  Kieran sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “That’s not replenishment. That’s a surge.”

  Samir nodded. “They’re not trying to replace losses. They’re expanding for the next phase.”

  They both stared at the screen. The data was irrefutable — and terrifying.

  Outside the sealed room, the sounds of Waiouru’s command centre buzzed faintly — footfalls, the low thrum of servers, the clipped conversations of passing signals officers. But inside the analysis suite, time moved differently. Slower. Heavier.

  “This is coordinated,” Kieran said finally. “No way they do this unless they’ve decided containment failed.”

  “It did fail,” Samir said quietly. “They lost Bismarck, yes — but they’ve absorbed the shock. This isn’t retreat. It’s adaptation.”

  Another click — Samir pushed a new feed onto the center screen. “Look here. Night pass from two days ago. Jiangnan. Watch the shadows.”

  A grainy IR overlay played in slow motion. Between two massive scaffolds, the unmistakable shape of a carrier island came into view — still skeletal, but rising fast. The positioning was odd — too far forward to be a routine lift.

  “They’re skipping sequencing,” Kieran muttered. “Laying internals while the hull is still being framed.”

  “Exactly. They’re building faster. Not better — but faster.”

  “And risking long-term survivability,” Kieran said. “But if they’re planning to throw mass at us…”

  He trailed off. They both knew the answer.

  Samir tapped the console. “I’ll prep a digest for Wellington, with abridged copies for Canberra, Esquimalt, and Northwood.”

  “Include the updated satellite tasking requests,” Kieran added. “And flag this for Du Plessis. He’ll want to see it before it hits the Beehive.”

  Samir raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll buy it?”

  Kieran exhaled through his nose. “He will when he sees the burn patterns. Or he won’t — and then we’re all going to feel it when the next fleet sails south.”

  He turned back to the screen. The outlines of new Chinese warships glowed like ghosts across the map.

  They were coming. Again.

  ***

  Beehive Ministerial Briefing Suite, Level 9 – Wellington. March 4th, 2041. 09.30LT.

  The windows were triple-glazed against the morning wind off the harbour, but Craig du Plessis still heard it faintly as a hollow murmur in the steel. Rain brushed against the glass like static. Wellington in March: the city always seemed to breathe deeper before a storm.

  He set his tablet on the table and glanced around the room. Six of them today. Enough to get things done, not so many it would descend into politics.

  "We’ll begin," du Plessis said.

  To his right sat his Chief Science Advisor Dr. Alicia Morrell, her expression guarded. Across from her, Brigadier Andrew Tan from Defence. Next to him was Keiran Pak, head of Resource Infrastructure and a reliable if occasionally overcautious civil servant. The final chair was occupied by a tall man in a charcoal suit, collar open, no tie.

  "This is Elias Fa’avae," du Plessis said. "Liaison Director for Dawn Aerospace. He’s here on behalf of the executive team. The report we’re about to discuss is under Cabinet protective seal. Read it, and then we talk."

  They did.

  The file was titled: Dawn Aerospace Environmental Observation & Risk Projection: Strategic Industrial Activity Zones – March 2041.

  It wasn’t long. Just twenty-eight pages. But by the fifth, no one was looking up. Eyes flicked, jaws tightened. When they were finished, du Plessis closed his tablet and folded his hands.

  "Mr. Fa’avae, would you summarise for the room?"

  Elias nodded once.

  "Over the last four months," he began, his voice steady but not rehearsed, "Dawn Aerospace has used its satellite and high-altitude observation platforms to monitor industrial impacts within New Zealand's territory. The project was initially designed to map agricultural stress and water distribution. But secondary data, especially from thermal and spectrographic sensors, revealed broader patterns."

  He tapped his own tablet, and the central table display lit up. A map of New Zealand, overlaid with pulsing red-yellow bands.

  "Steel production has risen 318% since late 2039. Coal output is up 610%, primarily from reopened West Coast seams. We’re not questioning the rationale – we understand the wartime demand. But the ecological signals are becoming extreme. Thermal hotspots in the Waikato corridor have caused microclimate shifts. We’re seeing a consistent point-six degree Celsius increase in surface temperature across central production zones."

  Morrell leaned in. "What about particulate saturation?"

  "Elevated. We've detected carbon black layers forming in the southern basin. Not quite Beijing pre-2010 levels, but heading there."

  Pak spoke up, concern edging his voice. "Are you suggesting we halt production?"

  Elias shook his head. "No. But if we continue at this pace without mitigation, you risk ecosystem destabilisation within two years. Not in a theoretical sense. In a real, observable collapse. Watershed acidity. Agricultural yield crashes. Subterranean heat traps."

  Brigadier Tan raised an eyebrow. "You're asking us to ease up on the steelworks while our ships are being sunk?"

  "I'm asking you to protect the ability to feed the people defending those ships," Elias replied evenly.

  There was silence. Du Plessis let it linger.

  "Page twenty-four," he said finally. "The satellite incidents. Go on."

  Elias brought up a second slide. This one darker, more technical.

  "Over the last six weeks, we’ve logged six anomalous encounters in low Earth orbit. Our AuroraSat-3 and -5 platforms experienced brief loss-of-signal events. Not random. Not natural. Spectral signatures consistent with microwave interference. Possible targeting."

  Tan sat straighter. "From whom?"

  "Unknown. We’re not attributing blame. But two of the signals came from objects registered under innocuous commercial covers. One launched from Hainan. One from Karachi."

  Morrell swore under her breath.

  Du Plessis spoke softly. "You think they're being tested. Tracked."

  Elias nodded. "We believe so. And these satellites carry no military capability. They observe climate, land use, and agricultural trends. That is all."

  "And yet they're being painted."

  "Yes."

  Du Plessis exhaled through his nose. "And the recommendation is to bring your network into Defence’s laser-sat protection umbrella."

  "Not to militarise," Elias said carefully. "To shield. Laser dazzle, signal deflection, orbital repositioning. Strictly defensive."

  Tan didn’t look thrilled, but he didn’t argue.

  Pak looked back down at the report. "There’s a section here about coastal aquifers. Says the diesel plants are altering salinity patterns. That confirmed?"

  "Confirmed. We’re advising a rotational activation schedule to allow for tidal correction. Otherwise you’ll poison the reefs."

  Morrell tapped her pen. "What about regenerative shifts? What if we move the foundries to hydrogen?"

  "You’d lower the particulate output by forty percent," Elias said. "And send a global signal that sustainability isn’t incompatible with strength."

  That landed. Du Plessis saw it in their faces.

  He stood slowly.

  "We’re not killing the war engine," he said. "But we are going to stop treating it like it can run forever without oiling the gears."

  He looked to Tan. "Get me a joint tasking memo with Defence and Industry. Laser-sat inclusion, limited scope."

  To Pak: "Start hydrogen transition at Marsden Point. Slow and quiet. No headlines."

  To Morrell: "Get your team into the labs. See if we can feed the soil before it breaks."

  Then he turned to Elias.

  "And thank Dawn Aerospace for me. Tell them I appreciate the warning."

  Elias didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.

  "Thank you, Minister. We’re just trying to keep the lights on."

  The report was very concerning, it basically said that Thermal satellite data from AuroraSat-3 and -5 painted a clear picture: the Waikato-Hauraki corridor was heating. Since August, surface temperatures had risen a steady point-six degrees Celsius. The culprits were plain enough — furnace venting from the new steel mill at Waipu, expanded coal stockpiles brought up from the South Island, and the endless glow of port-side refining along Tauranga and Napier’s waterfronts.

  But it wasn’t just the land. The sea was reacting too.

  Oceanic sensors flagged a four point seven percent rise in acidity above seasonal norms. Dawn’s report traced it to desalination byproducts, heavy traffic through the shipping lanes, and chemical mixing from unseasonal rainfall. Off Mahia, algae blooms had already begun to spread — the kind that choked ecosystems from the seabed up.

  Their recommendations were direct. Transition thirty percent of the foundries to hydrogen within eighteen months. Rotate the coastal desalination plants to prevent salinity lockout. Include the Aurora satellites in the Laser-sat defensive net. And if it came to it — authorize emergency orbital repositioning protocols.

  They weren’t threats. They were warnings.

  And they were backed by data no one could ignore.

  ***

  Joint Forces Command, RAAF Tindal – Northern Territory. March 7th, 2041. 12.17LT

  There were no illusions of rest. The war wasn’t waiting, and neither could he. With the Battle of the Bismarck Sea behind them and Tangaroa still undergoing repairs, Vice Admiral Malachi Mason made full use of the momentary operational lull — if it could even be called that.

  Half his fleet was bleeding. The other half was running on fumes. But then, so was theirs, if the intelligence reports were to be believed. There was only one option: rotate, rebuild, reorient.

  By mid-February, his orders were already cycling through secure comms: a third of the fleet was to return home — New Zealand and Australia, wherever the crews could breathe without the constant hum of radar locks and carrier alarms. The rotation wasn’t just for machinery. It was for morale. Ships could be repaired. Men and women, less so.

  For the British and the Canadians, with further to go, the ships would stay in New Zealand or Australian ports, but the crews were offered the opportunity to rotate out and fly home. Some took that opportunity, others did not.

  Back at Tindal, Mason poured over the strategic overlay in the operations room — a wide, curved projection that flickered in pale blue and red, warship icons blinking with posture codes. He stared at the layout like a surgeon examining a chest wound.

  The carrier disposition was fragile. Too fragile.

  He kept HMAS Australia and HMNZS Ranginui on station in the east — holding the line between Fiji and the Solomons, covering the gap left by Tangaroa’s damaged hull. That group was lean, almost too lean, but it was all he had to watch the Chinese buildup along the Melanesian vector.

  To the west, the HMS Queen Elizabeth and USS Carl Vinson held position in the Arafura and Timor Seas from Indonesia to Papua. It was a muscular force, but static. The moment they moved, everything else would collapse.

  Further out, the Indian Ocean was in motion. INS Vishal, HMAS Melbourne, and HMS Ark Royal patrolled the western approaches, with the older INS Vikramaditya in the Bay of Bengal. That grouping was solid — experienced, layered, flexible. But it was also too far from the Pacific.

  The subcontinent had become the flashpoint. Mason knew it. So did Beijing. And so, unfortunately, did New Delhi.

  He requested, formally and then informally, that India redeploy one of their carriers east — shift it into the Pacific to reinforce the Coral Sea front, where Chinese activity suggested they would try again.

  The response from Delhi was measured, polite, and absolutely immovable.

  Strategic pressures. Operational prioritisation. National sovereignty. The treaty was firm, but India was not budging. Not yet.

  He tried again, this time with pressure — subtle, then not so subtle. A backchannel call to India’s Eastern Naval Command. A note passed via diplomatic channels through Wellington and Ottawa. A briefing with Defence Minister MacNielty, who grunted something vague about “cultural sensitivities” and then returned to his tea.

  Nothing worked.

  In the end, he compromised. He always did.

  Mason ordered HMAS Sydney — fresh from her early trials, cutting her teeth in the Arabian Sea — to detach and return to the Arafura. It meant thinning the line around Oman and Pakistan, but it was necessary. The eastern flank was too exposed, especially with Tangaroa undergoing deep structural work to her flightdeck and Enterprise now crawling home to San Diego.

  He also gave instructions to shift the Indian Ocean group south — repositioning them closer to the Christmas Island line, where they could pivot if needed. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave him a swing hinge — a way to move firepower east if things in the Pacific exploded.

  It was the best he could do, for now. Without fracturing the alliance.

  His next major headache was air assets. Constant operations and now the Bismarck had seen a much higher attrition rate than they had initially expected. F-35Cs were taking more losses than they should, and their numbers were dwindling. Another round of requests for resupply from the Americas had netted the same results.

  The one shining light, if he could call it that, was that F-15 production was proceeding at pace. And De Haviland had started to deliver the Hawkeye and Osprey replacements. Their DHC-10E Kodiak AEW-EW platforms and DHC-10C Grizzly transports were a long overdue, but wholly welcome sight, filling the gaps caused by long months of attrition.

  Mason thought back to the Bismarck, it still troubled him, he had dreams, weird dreams, like the recurring one he had with Commander Clancy Tawhiti, commanding officer of the Southern Sentinels. In the dream they were just sitting in his mess having coffee, it was a silent peaceful moment, the only thing out of place was Tawhiti’s soaking wet flight gear dripping onto the carpet. That dream was the only thing he had left of the man, Mason could still hear the last radio call from Tawhiti’s Hawkeye, before it took the missile that killed it. They had stayed out far longer than they had too, keeping a vigil at the taile end of the fleet,

  Mason shook his head to clear it. He looked at his air asset dispositions. Of the five squadrons of F-35Cs the Royal New Zealand Navy had started the war with, he had enough F-35s to make three, that was one squadron per carrier with one in reserve. He backfilled the remaining squadron slots with F-15Ns. They had proven themselves at the Bismark, he was happy enough with that. The Remaining E-2s from the Kiwi fleet at least would go to the Americans, they had lost so many and with the new Kodiaks, he could spare them. The Ospreys would also go to the Americans, to be replaced by the Grizzlys. The air group from the Lincoln, was now assigned to the Enterprise, as replacements for her losses.

  He sat back, studying the new formation. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t optimal. But it would do. He had passed on his recommendations to the other fleet commanders, they would do with it what they will. Integrating the Indians though, that was problematic.

  Mason didn’t care for that situation, didn’t care for the politics either. He knew going into this deal with them was going to push the dynamic. Everything was fine when it went their way, but they had a very singular… vision. He didn’t care about their vision, didn’t care for how this alliance was shaping up either, things were far simpler when it was just CANZUK. Still, this is how wars were fought, he cared about his ships, and pilots, his sailors and everything coming back in one piece. His war wasn’t fought just on the sub-continent, his vision had to be more global.

  It was fought here. Under sun and storm. Fire and rain. Under the watchful eyes of those he had lost. He would not dishonour their memories with petty squabbles and irrelevant politics.