The Battle for Seoul, Korean Peninsula – February 13th, 2040.

  The thunder of artillery echoed through the hills beyond the Han River, rolling across the smouldering ruins of Seoul. The skyline, once shimmering with glass towers and neon signs, was now punctuated by black columns of smoke rising into the slate-grey sky. North Korean forces, emboldened by their Chinese benefactors and armed with sleek, cutting-edge equipment, poured southward through shattered suburbs — a relentless tide of armour and infantry.

  For weeks, the South Korean military had fought tooth and nail to stem the advance. Their K2 Black Panther tanks, pride of the Republic of Korea Army, lay hidden in the burnt-out husks of apartment complexes, their thermal sights scanning through the rubble. When the North Korean T-99 tanks — Chinese-built copies of their own Type 99 — trundled into kill zones, the K2s erupted from cover. Their smoothbore cannons barked, sending hypervelocity shells screaming into enemy armour. The first few engagements were brutal victories, South Korean crews working with machine-like precision.

  But there were always more coming.

  By the fifth day of the siege, the North Koreans had reached the outskirts of Seoul proper — Anyang, Guri, and the far edges of Incheon. South Korean marines, battered and exhausted, fought desperate rearguard actions through the concrete labyrinth. The skies above became a warzone of their own. KF-21 Boramae fighters streaked low across the cityscape, duelling with North Korean MiG-35s and J-20s — Chinese-built fighters flown by Pyongyang's most elite pilots. Missiles slashed through the clouds, leaving white contrails in their wake, while the distant thud of airstrikes pounded the northern approach roads.

  The Japanese had come, too. The howl of F-15J Kai fighters echoed above the rooftops, their swept wings slicing through the smoke-laden sky. They dropped precision bombs on advancing North Korean convoys, sending fiery plumes billowing into the air — but the tide was too strong. For every column broken, two more pushed forward.

  On the ground, the K2s waged their own private war — ambushes in the ruins, hit-and-run engagements that slowed the advance but could not stop it. The Black Panthers fought like ghosts, striking from the rubble then vanishing into the city's bleeding heart. Time and again they held the line, their sleek forms half-buried in rubble as their 120mm guns snapped off shots — but ammunition ran low, and one by one, they fell.

  Major General Han Dong-wook, commander of South Korea’s Special Operations forces, stood on a hill overlooking the battered capital as the sun dipped behind the western ridges. His radio crackled with reports — whole battalions overrun, the Han River crossings compromised, the last K2s running dry. He watched as the orange glow of fires crept closer along the northern skyline. There would be no victory here — not today.

  "Begin the withdrawal," Han ordered at last, voice heavy with the weight of history.

  The remnants of the Allied forces — South Korean, American, and Japanese — began their fighting retreat, falling back to the Suwon Line, thirty kilometres south of Seoul. Trucks packed with wounded soldiers rumbled down shattered highways under the cover of night, their headlights darkened. Columns of infantry slipped through the shadows, escorted by what little armour remained.

  Even as they pulled back, the city burned behind them.

  North Korean banners fluttered above ruined government buildings by dawn. Seoul had fallen — not through strategy, not through superior skill, but through sheer, remorseless attrition.

  ***

  The Battle for Malaysia, Malaysian Peninsula – February 14th, 2040.

  The Chinese assault on Malaysia was not the lightning strike the PLA had grown accustomed to. Here, they found a nation bloodied but prepared — a land that had learned from the fates of Taiwan and Southeast Asia. The storm came hard from the north, but Malaysia and its allies had been watching the horizon, waiting, preparing, and digging in.

  The PLA hedged their bets, launching a two-pronged assault — a land assault from the north and a large amphibious force from Hainan. In the days before the invasion, reconnaissance flights from the Royal Malaysian Air Force and Singapore Air Force tracked the looming armada, but could not breach the anti-air screen — a fleet bristling with Type 055 destroyers, amphibious assault ships, and drone swarms. The Malaysians harboured no illusions of stopping the invasion at the beaches, but they had something few other Southeast Asian nations had enjoyed in this war — time.

  By the time the first missiles streaked out of the South China Sea, Malaysia's defensive lines were well-hardened. Along the northern border of the Peninsula, in the dense tropical jungles of Johor and the ridges of Pahang, the Malaysian Army's mechanized brigades — supported by elite GGK commandos — fought a grinding, determined defence.

  Above the peninsula, the skies were filled with streaking contrails and the thunder of supersonic duels. The RMAF's ageing but meticulously maintained F/A-18 Hornets, Su-30MKMs, and South Korean FA-50s — bolstered by Singapore's F-15SG Strike Eagles and F-16D Fighting Falcons — pounced on incoming waves of Chinese aircraft. Guided by ground-based and airborne radar installations, they fought with precision. The much-vaunted J-20s of the PLA Air Force — long seen as undefeatable — began tumbling from the sky under volleys of AMRAAMs fired from ambush positions.

  But the numbers always won.

  Together, Malaysia and Singapore fielded just under 200 aircraft. For every J-20 that fell, three more took its place. RSAF Growlers jammed Chinese missile guidance systems, while SAM batteries exacted a heavy toll on bombers and drones. Yet attrition was unforgiving — within 48 hours, nearly half of Malaysia's fast jet squadrons had been wiped out. Still, for the first time in the Pacific War, the Chinese bled.

  On the ground, Malaysian KIFVs and Adnan IFVs roared through narrow chokepoints, pouring cannon fire and missiles into advancing PLA mechanized columns. K2 Black Panther tanks — provided by South Korea and New Zealand in the months before the war — struck like hidden vipers, ambushing Chinese spearheads before melting into the jungle. Malaysian artillery batteries rained cluster munitions onto pinned-down Chinese units.

  Yet the PLA kept coming.

  Learning from Taiwan and Indochina, the Chinese deployed drones by the thousands — swarming, whirring machines that hunted heat signatures, marked targets for precision missile strikes, or delivered their own deadly payloads. The Malaysians couldn't shoot them down fast enough.

  By the second week, the Malaysian-Singaporean line had been pushed to the edges of Johor Bahru — the gateway to Singapore.

  Singapore had known this day would come.

  For a month, the island had braced for siege. Highways were cleared and reinforced as emergency runways. Rooftop gardens concealed SAM batteries. The waterfront became a labyrinth of anti-ship barriers, hidden minefields, and pre-sighted artillery zones.

  They called it Fortress Singapore — a twenty-first century Maginot Line.

  When the Chinese sent ships to break the deadlock, the Malaysian and Singaporean navies surged out to meet them — launching waves of joint strike missiles and torpedoes from hidden submarines. In the chaos, several Chinese ships were sunk, including a Type 055 destroyer — but the allies were too few, and the PLA Navy too many. By the third week, the remnants of both navies had withdrawn into the Straits of Malacca, leaving Singapore isolated.

  On land, Singaporean Leopard 2SG tanks, supported by mechanized infantry and loitering munitions, ambushed Chinese recon units along the Causeway. But these were only the opening moves. When the main PLA thrust finally came, it bore the full weight of the Southern Theatre Command — armour, drones, and infantry pouring across the smouldering ruins of Johor Bahru.

  The narrow crossings into Singapore became killing fields — lined with hidden mines, tank traps, and overlapping fields of fire. But the Chinese took their time, shelling Singapore from afar — long-range artillery raining destruction day and night. Supplies dwindled. Ammunition stocks began to run dry.

  Off the coast, the remnants of the Malaysian and Singaporean navies waged a losing battle against the Chinese juggernaut — their missile boats and submarines striking hard in daring hit-and-run attacks but unable to stem the tide.

  By the end of the first month, the battle lines had hardened. The PLA pushed the defenders back to the walls of Singapore. The Malaysians fought on — launching guerrilla raids from the hills and forests north of the city.

  But everyone knew what was coming.

  The siege had begun.

  Singapore stood alone — a fortress surrounded by fire.

  ***

  The Lodge, Canberra – February 28th, 2040.

  The official residence of the Prime Minister of Australia had a distinct American Colonial character to it, with stained wall panelling and exposed upper-floor beams under the ceiling. Miriama Kahu had been here before, but she always found something new to marvel at — the way the late afternoon sun caught the brass fittings, or how the scent of aged leather and old wood seemed to wrap the room in a kind of quiet dignity. It was a place that hummed with history, the ghosts of power lingering in the corners.

  She had joined her Australian counterpart, John Mitchell, in the room they called the Drawing Room — a lavishly appointed but comfortable study. The crackling fireplace added a low warmth to the room, flickering shadows playing across the walls. Despite the tension in the air, it felt oddly serene — a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding across the region.

  "We have to do something, John," she stated, getting right to the point. Her voice was low, but there was an edge to it — the kind of steel that had carried her through the months of crisis.

  Mitchell, halfway through pouring them each a glass of fresh water from a crystal decanter, didn't look up immediately. He finished the pour with practiced care, then set the jug down with a soft clink.

  "I assume you mean Singapore," he replied, handing her a glass.

  "You're damn right I mean Singapore. They're under siege — we can't just leave them there, we promised them."

  Mitchell finally met her gaze, his blue eyes steady. He respected her — always had. They'd been through too much together not to. But he also saw the strain behind her eyes, the weight pressing on her shoulders. He felt it too — the impossible balance between caution and action, between protecting their own and reaching out to save others.

  "What would you have us do?" he asked calmly, his voice the measured tone of a man who'd spent decades navigating political storms. "You and I are both committed in the islands. With our home defence commitments, neither of us can send any more troops. We can divert the incoming British division, but they'll take time to get here..."

  Miriama pursed her lips, rolling the thought over in her mind. The idea had merit — it was the practical move. But practicality alone wouldn't save Singapore. She took a slow sip of water, letting the cool liquid settle her frayed nerves.

  "Hmmm, I hadn't considered that last one — that is certainly an option," she admitted. Her eyes flicked toward the window, where the soft glow of the setting sun was bleeding across the Canberra skyline. "What I was going to propose was sending in the navy to push back their ships and then flying in supplies. From what I can make out, they're getting desperately short on everything. It's their Tobruk, John — we didn't leave you, we can't leave them."

  The words hung heavy between them. Mitchell's eyes narrowed slightly. That one had been deliberate — and she knew it. Tobruk was an old wound, a reminder of a promise Australia had once made to stand by its allies no matter the cost.

  Mitchell's jaw tightened, but he didn't snap back. Instead, he set his glass down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  "That was unnecessary, Miri," he said quietly. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

  She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath. The pressure, the exhaustion — it was clawing at the edges of her composure. When she opened them again, her voice was softer.

  "I'm sorry, you're right — that was uncalled for. Please accept my apology." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But I'm not wrong. I want to start sending in supplies, but we'll need to control the airspace for that. What do you think?"

  Mitchell leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the room. The weight of the decision settled between them — two leaders caught in the storm, trying to hold back the tide.

  "The navy could punch a corridor through," he mused. "The joint carrier group — Ark Royal and Australia — they're close enough. If we commit them, we can clear the sea lanes, but the skies are the real problem. The Chinese have fighters up there, and a lot of them, the two air groups may not be enough. Cargo ships are definitely a no-go though — too much traffic, too vulnerable. We'd need to run it like the Berlin airlift — keep the skies open, fly everything in."

  Miriama's brow knitted. The scale of it was daunting. An air bridge, stretching thousands of kilometres across contested territory. But Koru stockpiles could cover the supplies — New Zealand had been quietly building reserves for months, preparing for just this kind of crisis.

  "We have the supplies — Koru depots could keep them going for weeks," she said. "But it won't matter if we can't get them in. If we commit the carriers and put the air forces on the line... it's everything, John. All our cards."

  Mitchell's eyes locked onto hers, the flicker of firelight reflected in their depths.

  "They'll come for us if we do this. You know that. Beijing won't let it stand."

  Miriama set her glass down slowly. Her fingers traced the rim, steady despite the storm inside her.

  "They're coming for us anyway," she said quietly. "I'd rather meet them head-on."

  A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

  Finally, Mitchell nodded — a small, decisive motion.

  "I'll make the calls."

  ***

  Allied Naval Fleet, Java Sea – March 5th, 2040. 02:30 Local

  The rumble of powerful engines reverberated through the night as the HMAS Australia, Australia’s newest Melbourne-class aircraft carrier, and the HMS Ark Royal, the British counterpart of the same class, sliced through the dark expanse of the Java Sea. The sea was still and quiet—too quiet for the crews aboard. The tension that had been building for months had finally reached its breaking point. These fleets, once stuck in holding patterns and patrol loops far from the fighting, waiting for orders that never seemed to come, were now on the move. They were about to strike. After what felt like endless hours of uncertainty, their mission was one they could truly get behind: clear the skies above Singapore! The Airforce needed a clear tunnel to deliver aid, the kind of lifeline not seen since the Berlin Airlift.

  The admirals onboard had hoped to get a little bit closer, but when they were about 300 kilometres from the Singaporean islands their presence was detected by Chinese reconnaissance aircraft—sharp-eyed spotters whose job was to track and report on any unusual activity in the region. As the Chinese radar systems locked in on the fleets, the first strike came seemingly out of nowhere in a swift wave of aggression. The sky, already dark with the threat of war, began to crackle with the sound of battle as F-35Cs roared off the flight decks of the two carriers. Their engines screamed as they formed up in a precise, calculated formation. Behind them, the EA-18G Growlers pulsed with electronic jamming power, and the E-2D Hawkeyes soared above, their radar systems weaving a web of vigilance across the heavens.

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  The Chinese, caught off-guard by the speed and aggression of the Allied response, struggled to organize their defence. The Chinese J-20s, their latest stealth fighters, came streaking in, but they were outclassed in this engagement—caught in the moment between high-tech innovation and battlefield reality. The F-35Cs, built for dominance in exactly this kind of combat, cut through the skies with surgical precision, dispatching enemy aircraft with swift and ruthless efficiency. Though outnumbered, the Allies, bolstered by superior tactics and equipment, carved a bloody swath through the Chinese fighters.

  The sight was nothing short of breathtaking: flashes of white and blue streaking across the blackened sky, with missiles tracking the telltale contrails of the enemy. The Chinese pilots, though trained in the art of aerial combat, were used to fighting the lesser equipped nations with the older aircraft. They were ill-prepared for a peer engagement. They were used to overwhelming numbers, but today, for all their vaunted superiority, they were facing a force that outmatched them in technology, experience, and tactics.

  The tides of war shifted dramatically, and as the skies above the Java Sea cleared of Chinese aircraft, something unexpected happened. From the depths of secrecy, Malaysian and Singaporean fighters—hidden for weeks in the shadows of well camouflaged hardened bunkers—raced toward the fray. Their engines roared as they soared upward to join the fight, their participation an unexpected boon to the outnumbered Allied forces.

  Beneath the aerial dance of war, the naval battle began. Australian and British frigates and destroyers, guided by the wisdom of seasoned commanders, unleashed a torrent of missiles at the Chinese fleet. All though the Chinese anti-missile defence was formidable, guided by superior radar and targeting systems, over half of the missiles hit their marks with deadly accuracy. More than a few Chinese vessels slipped beneath the waves that day, their hulls crumbling under the weight of the assault, but the true success lay in pushing the Chinese back—further away from the Allies, out of the missile range that had once posed a deadly threat to the allied forces.

  It was a battle of attrition, but the Chinese were forced into retreat. Their surface-to-air missile systems, once an impenetrable defence, were now rendered ineffective. The Allies had gained air superiority for now, and the skies were finally clear.

  It was in this moment of quiet victory, as the smoke of battle began to dissipate, that the next phase of the mission unfolded. USAF B-1B Bombers from Diego Garcia, and RAAF B-1Bs from Tindel thundered across the heavens, dropping their payloads on Chinese positions, flattening ground based anti-air defences, artillery positions and armoured columns alike.

  They were followed finally by RAAF and RNZAF C-17s and C-130Js, massive and lumbering, appearing in the distance—pale shadows against the rising dawn. Their wings cut through the air as they approached, ready to begin the airlift that would sustain Singapore in its time of need. The sight of those heavy lift aircraft, carrying critical supplies, and equipment, was a symbol of resolve. The airlift was now underway.

  As the first of the heavy cargo planes crossed into Singaporean airspace, the world seemed to pause—just for a moment—before the rhythm of war would begin anew. The skies above were silent, but for how long? The Allied forces knew that this battle was but the beginning, and the road ahead would demand everything they had. But for now, they had prevailed, and the airlift had begun. The future of Singapore depended on it.

  For how long it would last, was anyone’s guess, the Chinese were bound to send carriers of their own to try and push the allies back. Only time would tell if this was a symbolic or meaningful gesture.

  ***

  Chinese Naval Fleet, South China Sea – March 10th, 2040. 10:30 Local

  On the bridge of the Guangxi, one of the PLA Navy’s Type-004 nuclear carriers, Vice Admiral Wang Zhen stood, his gaze cutting across the horizon as the fleet cruised through the choppy waters of the South China Sea. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a dull haze across the ocean, and the air was thick with tension. The fleet before him—though not as mighty as it once had been at the start of the war—was still formidable. Two Type-004 nuclear carriers, flanked by an assortment of sixteen surface vessels ranging from nimble corvettes to heavily-armed destroyers and robust frigates, formed the backbone of his force. Their two replenishment ships ensured that they would have the supply lifelines needed to carry out their mission. Beneath the waves, two Type-093 nuclear attack submarines silently patrolled, their presence a reminder of the hidden power they wielded.

  It had taken days to pull the fleet together, pulling vessels off of other assignments, redirecting their efforts toward a singular, pressing objective: deal with the growing threat posed by the two carriers operating in the Java Sea. Even though they were conventionally powered, the Melbourne-class carriers had proven to be the equal of the Type-004 in every way, except for endurance. Despite their lower profile, they represented a significant threat, especially with the ongoing airlift into Singapore. The airlift that, if allowed to continue, would ensure the survival of Singapore, and perhaps even shift the course of the war. That could not be allowed to happen. The carriers had to be neutralized—driven off, if not destroyed.

  As the Guangxi and its escorting vessels approached the coordinates where the Allied carriers were last reported, a strange emptiness hung in the air. There were no ships in sight. No signs of the enemy fleet. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the mission might go off without a hitch. But the unease was palpable. Wang Zhen’s eyes narrowed as his mind calculated possible scenarios. The Alliance were never so careless, this was some kind of mistake.

  Suddenly, a sharp beep pierced the tense silence of the bridge. A radar operator’s voice, calm but laced with urgency, cut through the air. "Sir, we’ve got a launch... anti-ship cruise missiles, multiple trajectories."

  The words hung in the air, sending a chill through the room. Wang Zhen’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching as dozens of blips on the radar began to converge on the fleet. The missiles—sleek and deadly—rose from the distant shores, their launchers hidden by the dense coastal terrain.

  "Deploy countermeasures!" Wang Zhen ordered, his voice sharp and commanding, but his mind raced. The launch was unexpected. Where had these missiles come from? The Alliance had more surprises in store.

  Before his order could fully echo through the room, a new set of alarms blared, signalling yet another immediate threat. As soon as the Chinese ships had strayed within range, Truck mounted HELIOS-TWK Mk1 500Kw laser batteries, stationed along the coastline, had been activated. High-powered beams of light pierced the sky, cutting through the atmosphere with deadly precision. The lasers, powerful enough to burn through steel and disable electronic systems, were trained on the Chinese fleet—another unexpected defence, a formidable one, that the Alliance had brought in with the rest of the supplies, a gift fro the Singaporean people.

  The missiles were still in motion, but the lasers made them even more dangerous. Wang Zhen’s eyes tracked the incoming threat, his mind already calculating their trajectory, their range. The fleet had been ambushed by this coordinated strike, a combination of high-tech missiles and cutting-edge laser weaponry. He could almost hear the hum of the lasers charging up, each one a harbinger of destruction aimed squarely at his vessels.

  The fleet's missile defence systems sprang to life, launching countermeasures to intercept the cruise missiles. Phalanx CIWS systems whirred into action, their rapid-fire guns blazing against the incoming warheads. But there were too many. The missiles were flying in swarms, their warheads primed for impact. A few were shot down in mid-flight, their remains exploding in a flash of light. Yet, several others broke through the defences, streaking toward their targets.

  At the same time, the lasers began to slice through the air. On the screen, Guangxi's defensive systems lit up as the first blast from a HELIOS-TWK beam hit one of the destroyers in the rear of the fleet. The metal hull buckled, sparking violently as the heat from the laser pierced deep into its systems. A plume of smoke rose from the ship, and its speed slowed as critical systems failed. More lasers followed in rapid succession, and the fleet's tight formation began to break apart as ships veered off course, trying to avoid the targeting beams.

  The skies above the South China Sea had become a deadly battleground, with missiles and lasers lighting the air, and the fleet now scattered under the weight of the assault. Wang Zhen, his face set in grim determination, clenched his fists. They had been ambushed in a way they hadn’t anticipated. But they had no choice. They couldn’t turn back now. They needed to neutralize these defences, or the Allied carriers would remain a deadly force.

  "Prepare to engage at all costs," he ordered. "We will not be driven off. We must strike back."

  His words steeled the resolve of his crew, but the situation was precarious. The battle for the South China Sea had just begun—and the Chinese fleet, though bruised, was not yet defeated. But it was clear now that the Allies had the means to defend themselves in ways far more advanced than the Chinese had anticipated. The fight for Singapore’s airlift would be anything but easy.

  Far to the South, 10:50 Local

  In the cockpit of his F-35C, Rear Admiral Sir Andrew Pembroke watched the violent dance of lights unfolding above the South China Sea, his eyes reflecting the flashes of lasers cutting through the sky. The scene before him was like something out of a twisted science fiction movie—brilliant beams of concentrated energy arcing through the air, followed by explosions of fire and smoke as missiles were torn apart in mid-flight. It was a light show that, to him, felt more like justice than spectacle. The skies far below him filled with the chaos of the battlefield, and his grin deepened as the Chinese fleet scrambled in desperate counterattacks.

  His wingman, a younger pilot with fresh eyes and a hotshot reputation, hung just off his port wing, the two aircraft cutting through the clouds in perfect formation. Sir Andrew didn’t often get the opportunity to fly; his role was one of command and coordination but today was different. This was too juicy a spectacle to miss—the kind of battle that wasn’t simply fought with missiles and guns but with pure, calculated strategy. The Chinese fleet was getting a taste of their own medicine, and the taste was sour. For Sir Andrew, the chance to witness it firsthand was a rare thrill, and he could feel the old rush of adrenaline surge through him as they swept above the fray.

  Below, the C-17s and C-130Js, the mighty heavy-lift cargo planes from both the RAAF and RNZAF, had been flying in shifts for nearly three days straight. The rumbling giants had pierced the skies above Singapore around the clock, their engines howling as they brought in vital supplies—food, medicine, and ammunition to sustain the beleaguered forces on the island. They were more than just lifelines; they were symbols of resilience in the face of a seemingly unstoppable force. But it wasn’t just the supplies that made the airlift a game changer. Alongside the critical aid, Kiwi built laser units had been deployed—sleek, high-tech marvels capable of defending the skies with pinpoint precision. Those laser systems were already proving their worth, cutting down missiles like a surgeon’s scalpel through a clot of blood. The Chinese were realizing, too late, that they’d been outclassed at their own game.

  With the airlift now complete—for the moment, at least— and the heavies long gone, safely tucked up at their bases in Australia, Sir Andrew’s ships had begun their withdrawal as well. They had achieved their objective, pushing back the Chinese fleet and securing a fragile peace over the skies of Singapore. Still, the job was far from over. The Australian and New Zealand air forces remained on high alert, poised to return should the situation flare up again. It was a temporary respite, and he knew better than anyone not to get complacent. But as his F-35C sliced through the air, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, when one fo the Chinese carriers, struck by at least three missiles and more than a few hits from the lasers, started to list, before it quickly capsized and slipped below the waves.

  On his radar screen he could see the faint silhouette of the HMS Ark Royal, its hull cutting through the waves over 200 kilometres away, like a predator in the depths, its fleet standing watch, vigilant and ready. Sir Andrew had always admired the ship—a symbol of Britain’s commitment to defence and strength and a true return to the supercarrier arena—he thought of the damage Queen Elizebeth had taken in a similar engagement, when they had been on the receiving end. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for the Chinese crew, they had stated this.

  But for all the power the carriers brought to the table, it was the laser units that had truly turned the tide in this skirmish. Without those, the battle might have been much harder fought, and perhaps even lost. They had proven to be the ultimate force multiplier.

  “Bloody hell,” Sir Andrew muttered to himself as another laser beam illuminated the horizon below, hitting its target with an explosion of light. “That’s how you teach them a lesson.”

  His wingman broke the silence. “Do you think the Chinese are going to regroup, sir?”

  Sir Andrew considered it for a moment, his eyes still locked on the dance of destruction unfolding below. The HELIOS-TWK Mk1 lasers were relentlessly cutting down the Chinese offensive, but there was no denying that their fleet had sustained significant damage. The Type-004 carriers were still formidable, but this fleet was down to one and their edge had dulled under the pressure of sustained assaults and technological superiority. It was hard to say whether they would regroup now, or if they would take a harder line in the coming weeks. Regardless, he wasn’t about to let his guard down.

  “They’ll regroup,” Sir Andrew said, his voice steady, “but not easily. This isn’t over by a long shot. But for now, we’ve got them on the back foot.”

  As the pair of F-35Cs levelled off and banked back toward their formation, Sir Andrew couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. The heavies had done their part. The laser units had proven their worth. His ships had struck with surgical precision, driving the Chinese back and giving Singapore the breathing room it so desperately needed. But the war was far from over, and it was clear that this battle, however victorious, was just one chapter in a much larger, much more complex conflict.

  His eyes scanned the horizon once more, the endless expanse of the South China Sea stretching out before him. A fleeting moment of peace, before the storm would inevitably return. For now, however, the enemy had been made to pay the price for their overconfidence. And as he flew back toward the safety of his ships, Sir Andrew couldn’t help but savour the thought: The Chinese were learning that the cost of underestimating the Alliance was far higher than they had ever imagined.

  A little over an hour later, Sir Andrew’s F-35C swooped down from the sky, the horizon blurred into a haze of steel-grey ocean and cloud, the rumbling growl of the jet’s engines reverberating through the cockpit. His hand gently adjusted the throttle, easing it back as he closed in on the HMS Ark Royal below. The carrier’s deck was already a sea of activity, bustling with the constant motion of aircraft being readied for the next mission, the ship’s crew moving with military precision despite the adrenaline still thick in the air after the recent engagement.

  Sir Andrew had flown countless carrier landings before—each one unique, but all governed by the same principle: focus. His body was a machine in sync with the aircraft, and every instinct told him this wasn’t the time for complacency. This was a high-risk maneuver, even on a clear day, and after the high-octane naval battle he had just witnessed, he would have to keep his mind focussed on precision and care. The previous few days of tension and intense combat had left their mark on the crew, but it was his job now to show them the same discipline and control they had witnessed in battle.

  Flight ops came through his comms, their voice calm, professional. "Admiral, you’re cleared for approach. LSO’s have you in sight switch to landing frequency, Good to have you back."

  "Copy that, Wings. On final approach, switch to landing" Sir Andrew replied, his tone even, despite the pulse of adrenaline running through him. He dropped the nose of the F-35C just slightly, adjusting for wind, and brought his landing gear and tail hook down.

  The sea was relatively calm, but the Ark Royal was still pitching, still moving beneath him, a mammoth warship with its imposing island towering above the deck like a sentinel watching over the sea. Its flight deck, stretching over three hundred meters, seemed impossibly small from his vantage point. Yet, he knew it well. He could almost hear the hum of the arrestor wires vibrating beneath him, and he adjusted his pitch slightly, bringing the nose up in a shallow climb.

  “Admiral you’re at just over a kilometre, call the ball!” the Senior LSO called over the landing channel.

  “Roger ball, Lightening 2,500.” Pembroke replied, rattling off his fuel state, so they could set the appropriate tension for the wires.

  “Glidepath is excellent Admiral, you’re on track, ease it in.”

  The F-35C was a nimble beast, but it carried weight—both in fuel and in the responsibility of landing it safely. Sir Andrew let the aircraft sink slowly toward the deck, his focus narrowing, his mind calculating every second of the descent.

  "You’re in the grove Admiral, she’s all yours!"

  The wind was light but steady, and Sir Andrew adjusted his heading slightly, checking his alignment with the centreline of the carrier’s flight deck. He flicked the F-35C’s speed brake to help bring him down in the right profile, careful not to come in too fast or too high.

  At a thousand feet, his hand was already on the throttle, pulling it back, keeping the descent slow and controlled, not wanting to be too heavy-handed with his approach. The F-35C responded like a well-tuned instrument, the engine’s hum quieting as he applied slight corrections.

  Five hundred feet, then two hundred, and the looming deck grew larger, faster. The arrestor wires beneath him gleamed in the sunlight, barely visible, but his years of training told him they were there, waiting. His eyes locked onto the meatball—the visual landing aid that guided him onto the carrier. It was a small, glowing ball of light that fluctuated up and down in the sight picture, providing the final feedback on his approach.

  As the landing gear neared the deck, Sir Andrew felt the unmistakable sensation of his aircraft fighting gravity, struggling to stay level. A swift pull of the stick steadied the aircraft, and with a slight flare of the nose, the wheels kissed the deck—the unmistakable sound of a solid landing, but he pushed the throttle to the stops just in case.

  The arrestor hook, already extended beneath the fuselage, found its target—a heavy steel cable woven into the fabric of the flight deck—and then the world stopped! The F-35C jerked violently as the wire caught hold, yanking the aircraft to a sudden halt, and he pulled the throttle back to idle. Sir Andrew’s body was pressed back into the seat, a split-second of G-force before the jet came to a complete stop, the violent lurching giving way to a perfect halt just a few feet from the end of the deck.

  A wave of relief flooded through him, but it was fleeting. His heart was still pounding from the rush of the landing, the tension of the previous days, and the memory of the battle that had unfolded only hours earlier.

  "Nice and smooth, sir. Perfect three as always. Welcome back," came the voice of the Senior LSO, cutting through the comms as Sir Andrew disengaged the brake, raised the hook and taxied forward to the designated parking area on the deck. He still couldn’t get over watching everything through the floor of the jet, it was a far cry from the F-4’s he’d first flew as a young Sub.

  Sir Andrew’s eyes narrowing as he scanned the deck ahead, following the directions of the yellow shirts. He gave the throttle a final twist, slowing the aircraft down as his wingman fell in behind him.

  At the pointy end, in the distance, more of the Ark Royal’s yellow shirts worked swiftly to guide the two more jets into position, the familiar blur of their movements punctuated by the metallic clang of the arresting gear behind him being prepared for the next incoming aircraft. All the sights and sounds of a busy flight deck, he loved it, the feel of it, the life of it, he missed it up on the command deck.

  Sir Andrew sat back in his seat, momentarily lost in the hum of the jet’s systems, knowing the action wasn’t over—not by a long shot. The sky might have cleared for now, but this was just the calm before the storm.

  But for a brief moment, he allowed himself to savour the simple victory of a flawless landing—a small triumph in the larger fight that awaited them all.