Whangarei Harbour, Convoy Bravo67 – February 11th, 2040.

  The early morning mist hung heavy over Whangarei Harbour, shrouding the fleet in a quiet, eerie stillness. The air reeked of saltwater and the myriad of other smells you get from a busy port, the distant sound of seagulls the only break in the silence. Along the dark waters, eight massive container carriers, the backbone of New Zealand’s growing logistical power, slowly lined up in the mouth of the harbour. Four of them were Koru Logistics vessels, each a testament to New Zealand's rapidly expanding reach in the global trade network, while the other four came from various other companies on contract, their names barely visible under the rising fog. Alongside them, four Koru Energy heavy oil tankers bobbed gently in the water, their polished hulls gleaming in the faint light.

  At the front of the convoy, the warships waited — sleek, formidable vessels poised like silent guardians. The flagship, HMNZS Hawkes Bay, a Province-class Aegis equipped air warfare destroyer, stood at the forefront, under the command of Captain Henry Collins. In his late forties, Collins was known for his blend of pragmatism and strategic brilliance. He stood at the bridge wing, eyes fixed through his binoculars as the convoy formed up in the harbour. His jaw was set, a sign of the weight of the task ahead, his gaze narrowed against the harsh sun. He checked his watch, knowing that every second counted.

  "This is Hawkes Bay," Collins' voice crackled over the comms minutes later. "Secure your positions. We move as planned—slow and steady. Stay sharp, people. There’s bound to be subs in the water, and we’re not taking any chances today."

  His eyes briefly flicked to the tactical display on the screen beside him. The Hawkes Bay’s Aegis combat system was linked directly to New Zealand’s intelligence hub, HMNZS Irirangi. Nestled beneath the shadow of Waiouru Military Camp, Irirangi fed real-time data from the SOSUS network and satellite surveillance, painting a clear picture of the threat ahead. Multiple subsurface contacts had been detected, a rare indication of potential danger. The mission to resupply Japan was critical — and no risk could be overlooked.

  "Kiwi, you're with me on the northern flank. Kakapo, keep the eastern perimeter tight. Kotare, Kaka, maintain full vigilance on the southern edge. Awatere, keep the logistics ships in formation—close enough to provide protection, but far enough to avoid clutter." Collins' tone was steady, but there was an underlying schoolmasterly command to it, which came from years of experience.

  "Understood, Hawkes Bay," replied Commander Millie Frampton, captain of HMNZS Kiwi. Her voice came through the comms clear and unwavering. "We’re ready to go when you are."

  The other captains responded in kind: HMNZS Kakapo, Kaka, and Kotare, the Kahu-class heavy corvettes, moved into their strategic positions, forming a tight barrier around the convoy. These ships were more than just corvettes; with their 110-meter length and nearly 3000-ton displacement, they were light frigates in all but name. Armed to the teeth with anti-air, surface, and sub-surface weaponry, the corvettes were designed to deal with any threat. Their Aegis combat systems provided seamless integration, making them nimble and deadly in treacherous waters. Even HMNZS Awatere, the newest Aotearoa-class replenishment ship, equipped with the same Aegis suite and cutting-edge sensors, stood ready to provide essential support.

  Commander Sophie Carter, captain of Awatere, stood beside the radar console, her hands steady as she monitored the convoy’s progress. "Skipper," a voice broke through the intercom. "The tankers are in position. We’re ready."

  Her mind raced with calculations, her focus never wavering. This mission was vital for the South Korean war effort, and Koru Logistics had a significant role in keeping the supply lines open. The weight of responsibility was immense, but the coordination of the fleet made it clear: everyone knew their role, and the operation was running like clockwork.

  Meanwhile, Collins shifted his attention to the other vessels. While Hawkes Bay led the charge, it was only one part of a finely tuned machine. The other ships—Kiwi, Kakapo, Kotare, Kaka, and Awatere—were an integral part of the convoy's strength. There was no room for error. Despite the precision of their movements, the tension was palpable in the air. Everyone felt it. But the mission had to succeed, and failure was not an option.

  Just offshore, the HMNZS Hamana, one of New Zealand’s heavily modified and locally produced Mako-class submarines based loosely off of the Type-212 design but bigger and packed with a much larger punch, hovered just beyond the horizon, she would be trailing the convoy on this one, keeping an eye on any suspicious movements. The ship's sonar systems were also tied into Irirangi, and they were already plotting the multiple submerged tracks along their route, which had prompted the heavy escort. No one knew exactly what was lurking beneath the waves, but the presence of hostile submarines could not be ignored.

  As the convoy made its way through the harbour mouth, the ships formed a perfect line of defence, each vessel playing its part in protecting the cargo that would sustain the troops on the Korean peninsula. The missiles, rockets, ammunition, artillery shells, medical supplies, food and fuel were critical. Every soldier, every resource, depended on these supplies reaching their destination without incident.

  "Harbour master says we’re clear to begin the transit," Collins confirmed after a few tense moments of silence. "All ships, maintain your positions. Let’s get this done."

  The convoy began its slow but steady journey out of the harbour, engines thrumming as the ships powered into the open sea. The warships, sleek and formidable, escorted the cargo vessels, their radar systems scanning the horizon. The ocean, vast and relentless, stretched before them. At an average speed of 15 knots the trip was going to be a long one and with every wave that crashed against the ships’ hulls, the tension grew. These waters were no longer as safe as they once were.

  "Hawkes this is Kakapo," Commander Mackay’s voice came over the comms, calm but alert. "We’ve got movement to the northeast. Looks like a surface vessel, but it’s too far out to make a positive ID."

  "Keep an eye on it," Collins ordered. "Probably a fishing trawler or spy boat. Have the Kaka move towards the northeast, stay on alert. If they make a move towards the convoy, we’ll handle it."

  As the minutes turned into hours, the convoy steadily made its way toward the north. On the bridge of the Hawkes Bay, Captain Collins continued to monitor the situation from his command chair, aware that the so far peaceful journey could shatter at any moment. The ships that surrounded him were not just escorts; they were his eyes, his ears, his defenders. And just as important, they were the lifeline for the beleaguered allied forces in South Korea and Japan.

  This was the new normal — a world where every convocation was a risk, every journey a potential ambush. Yet through the careful, calculated movements of the RNZN ships, the convoy pressed on, slowly making its way through the waters that were increasingly becoming a theatre of war.

  "Stay sharp," Collins muttered to himself, under his breath.

  The sea stretched out before them, endless and unforgiving.

  ***

  Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands — The Northeastern Line of Resistance February 12th, 2040.

  The air on Guadalcanal was thick with humidity, clinging to skin and clothes, as the sun hung low over Henderson Field, casting long shadows across the tangle of concrete runways, aircraft shelters, and hastily erected prefabricated buildings. Beneath the harsh Pacific sky, the island was transforming into a fortress once again — not against the Imperial Japanese Navy this time, but a far more formidable enemy.

  China’s relentless march through Southeast Asia had forced the Allied Pacific Nations into a bitter holding pattern, but now, they were digging in. If the Dragon sought to dominate the Pacific, it would bleed for every inch.

  Above, the roar of four General Electric F110-GE-129 afterburning turbofan engines echoed as a pair of RNZAF F-15EX Strike Eagles screamed across the sky, banking hard as they came in for landing. No. 15 and No. 75 Squadrons had arrived several days ago from RAAF Tindal, joining the growing throng of aircraft already crowding the narrow airfield. Further down the tarmac, FA-50 Golden Eagle attack fighters from No. 104 Squadron stood in neat rows, their frames bristling with air-to-ground munitions, ready for the next strike.

  At the far end of the runway, a lone KC-46 Pegasus tanker from No. 40 Squadron sat under the watchful eye of armed sentries, its fuel lines humming as it offloaded precious aviation fuel into underground storage tanks. Other tankers were still aloft, bringing in more fuel from Australia. Beside it, four P-8A Poseidon maritime patrol aircraft from No. 5 Squadron idled, readying for takeoff with fresh munitions, sonobuoys, and fuel, their sensor arrays already scouring the depths for Chinese submarines.

  On the southern apron, three E-7 Wedgetails from No. 169 Squadron sat undergoing maintenance, their solitary airborne counterpart circled above, scanning the horizon with its radar package, a vigilant guardian over the skies.

  Despite the constant hum of activity — jets touching down, helicopters clattering overhead, engineers and ground crews working tirelessly — every inch of Henderson Field seemed precariously packed. A patchwork of hardware from four nations, all crammed into a space not built to handle such sustained military activity. But it was working. Henderson had become the forward operating base for the coalition forces, though the majority of the aircraft and personnel hailed from the Royal New Zealand Air Force, with helicopters from the other CANZUK nations.

  It was crude. Haphazard. Held together by sheer willpower and determination. But it was working.

  Further inland, the island's rolling hills concealed more than just villages and forgotten WWII relics. The British 4th Light Brigade and the 12th Armoured Infantry Brigade had moved in from Australia, their light wheeled vehicles and mechanized infantry weaving through the humid undergrowth. Veterans of years spent fighting insurgencies, the British forces were lean, experienced, and accustomed to long-range reconnaissance and hit-and-run skirmishes.

  Alongside them, the Canadian 1st and 5th Mechanized Brigade Groups dug deep into the island’s defensive line. Their LAV 6.0 infantry fighting vehicles and Leopard 2A8 Main Battle Tanks had been hauled across the Pacific and hastily unloaded. Now, they were positioning themselves in reinforced firebases along the coastline, preparing for a long, grinding battle. Every morning, the sharp crack of rifle fire echoed through the jungle as Canadian and British troops trained alongside local militias, Solomon Islanders who remembered their grandfathers' tales of another war that had raged across their homeland.

  The Allies weren’t just digging in — they were preparing for a brutal defense. The entire island chain was becoming a killing ground. The British and Canadians established firebases along coastal hills, overlooking key roadways and beaches. The New Zealand 1st Infantry (Motorized) Division, with a full battalion from the Fijian Infantry Regiment, moved into the dense jungle, constructing camouflaged strongpoints.

  Minefields and wire fences stretched across the approaches to Henderson Field. Anti-aircraft batteries were dug into the ridgelines, while Man-Portable Air-defense Systems teams lurked beneath the canopy, ever watchful.

  But it wasn’t all about destruction. Engineers from New Zealand, Australia, and Britain were rebuilding and reinforcing the island’s infrastructure. Hospitals, schools, and public buildings were not only being constructed but fortified — anything to safeguard civilian life if the worst came.

  Off the coast, the Royal Canadian Navy’s destroyers prowled in loose formations, hunting submarines and escorting supply ships bringing reinforcements. The Royal Marines Commando Brigade had spread across the smaller islands, setting up observation posts and supply caches in anticipation of Chinese amphibious landings.

  But the Allies weren’t preparing for just a conventional battle.

  The exiled Royal Thai Navy, battered but unbroken, had made its way to Guadalcanal. What remained of their fleet — corvettes and fast attack craft — now formed the backbone of a clandestine network. They ferried weapons, intelligence, and resistance fighters across the South Pacific, their crews bitter, burning with the shame of exile.

  Resistance networks were already forming across Southeast Asia, funneling weapons and intelligence into occupied territories. Thai Navy crews and Special Forces were slipping back into their homeland, working alongside local partisans to disrupt Chinese operations from within.

  The digital battlefield was as vital as the physical one. Allied cyber teams from the Five Eyes nations had set up operations in Guadalcanal’s jungle-shrouded interior. Chinese logistics chains across Southeast Asia were already under attack — trains derailed by software glitches, supply depots ablaze from suspicious fires, encrypted communications scrambled by malicious code. The hackers, calling themselves "Dragon’s Bane," were a loose coalition of government-backed specialists and rogue operators from across the globe.

  Night fell over Guadalcanal, and the island seemed to hold its breath.

  At Henderson Field, the last of the day’s patrol flights taxied to a halt beneath the orange haze of floodlights. Weary ground crews worked through the night, servicing engines and loading munitions beneath the oppressive heat. On the ridgelines, sentries scanned the distant horizon with night-vision scopes. In the waters to the north, Canadian and Australian destroyers prowled silently, their sonar arrays seeking the faint, predatory whispers of Chinese submarines.

  Everyone on Guadalcanal knew the Chinese were coming.

  ***

  Papua New Guinea — The Northern Line of Resistance February 12th, 2040.

  The largest military buildup since the Second World War now loomed over the Pacific, a multinational force formed in defiance of China’s relentless advance. The Indonesians, confident in their safety, had chosen to stand alone for the time being, while the vast expanse of the Philippines proved too difficult for the smaller coalition to fully protect. Hard decisions were made, accompanied by severe sacrifices, as the forward line was drawn. The coalition now stretched across Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands—a patchwork of uniforms and flags united by necessity rather than history.

  The weight of the war and those decisions hung heavy across the Pacific, perhaps no heavier than on its commander. Newly promoted Lieutenant General Lachie Paterson, commanding the Australian and New Zealand forces as part of Operation “Wattle-Koru”, and now the coalition ground element as a whole, had moved his forces into their prepped positions in Papua New Guinea, digging in for a prolonged engagement.

  Thanks predominantly to a Tri-Lateral defence agreement signed between New Zealand, Australia and Papua New Guinea in 2032, the PNG government, was more than willing to have the coalition forces aiding in their defence. This agreement provided the framework for a sustained military presence in the region, with considerable financial investment from both Australia and New Zealand over the years, to bolster and modernise the PNG Defence Force. Modern weapons, armoured vehicles, ISR and logistics aircraft, ships, the agreement had transformed the PNGDF landscape, they weren’t large, but they were effective.

  The agreement had called for increased training, and intelligence sharing, strengthening the PNGDF’s ability to defend its homeland. The small but dedicated Papua New Guinean forces, though outmatched in terms of technology and numbers, had proven formidable in the dense jungles, where their knowledge of the terrain and guerrilla tactics played a crucial role. With the help of their allies, the PNGDF had reinforced their northern defence, with a growing focus on countering Chinese cyber and hybrid warfare tactics that were disrupting the region.

  The PNGDF, the ADF and the NZDF working side-by-side in their joint mission to safeguard their territorial integrity. The harsh terrain and dense jungle, perfect for the kind of warfare the ANZACS had trained for over decades, would become both a challenge and a strength.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Alongside Paterson's forces, the Marine Rotational Force – Darwin, a brigade-sized unit of mechanized infantry under the command of Brigadier General Marcus Harlan, USMC, had reinforced the northern line. With a wealth of experience from their deployments in the Pacific, the Marines were the spearhead in a region that demanded toughness.

  The Kiwis, with their 2nd Cavalry Division, were the final piece of the puzzle, their heavy armour arriving just in time to bolster the line. The New Zealanders, known for their ability to deploy quickly, had airlifted over a thousand men in by RNZAF 767-400ERs. The real heavy lifting, however, came by sea—transport ships brought K-2NZ Black Panther main battle tanks, the most advanced in the region, along with K-21NZ Infantry Fighting Vehicles and K9A2-NZ Thunder Self Propelled Howitzers. The island’s already overburdened roads were now filled with the squat, brutal shapes of these war machines, their tracks carving deep into the earth as they rolled forward to secure key positions.

  From the hill overlooking the beachhead, NZDF Major General Connor MacRoy of the 2nd Cavalry Division observed the scene. His unlit cigar hung from his lips as he watched landing craft unload men, armour, and supplies, while massive warships patrolled the horizon. The heavy presence of American, British, New Zealand, and Australian naval power in the region signified an unyielding resolve to hold the Pacific at all costs.

  “We’re here for the long haul,” MacRoy muttered to his second-in-command, his eyes narrowing at the distant sea. “If the bastards want these islands, they’re going to have to fucking bleed for them.”

  It was the largest military buildup in the Pacific since World War II—a patchwork of forces from Australia, New Zealand, the U.S., the UK, and Canada. A force of necessity, not history. Australia and New Zealand bore the brunt of this mobilization, their mechanized divisions—two from Australia and one from New Zealand—standing ready. This was not a force that had seen war in generations, yet its drills were sharp, and the equipment was some of the best the world had to offer. The wealth of Koru Energy and New Zealand's rapid modernization had made this possible, with the Pacific now witnessing an unyielding shift in the balance of power.

  The trilateral agreement had not only ensured a robust military presence but also facilitated the integration of the Papua New Guinea Defence Force (PNGDF) into larger regional defence operations. Though the PNGDF was relatively small compared to its larger allies, its presence had grown stronger, especially with Australian and New Zealand support. PNGDF special forces had been integrated into joint operations, they would be particularly useful in tracking and disrupting enemy movements through the dense jungles and mountains when the time came.

  Offshore, carrier strike groups formed a steel wall across the Coral, Arafura, and Timor Seas. Ships from the Royal Australian Navy, the Royal New Zealand Navy, the Royal Navy, the Royal Canadian Navy, and the U.S. 3rd Fleet, bolstered by those of the Royal Thai Navy and a few other Indochinese stragglers stood ready to push forward. The presence of amphibious ships meant the coalition was serious in its commitment. The amphibious assaults would be coordinated with precision, supported by heavy air support and a robust logistics chain stretching across the Pacific.

  It was a sight to behold—thousands of soldiers, sailors, and airmen, all poised for battle. Machines of war from every corner of the globe, lining up for what could be the fight of their lives. But even as the massive force gathered, a lingering question clouded every commander's mind: Would it be enough?

  China's war machine showed no sign of faltering. Taiwan, Indochina, and Southeast Asia had already fallen to the advancing tide of red. The People's Liberation Army had committed nearly a quarter of a million soldiers to the Southeast Asian theatre, supported by formidable carrier battle groups and a relentless wave of cyber-attacks that never seemed to stop. And they would soon be headed this way.

  The cyber war, in particular, was a shadow battle of its own, disrupting supply chains, scrambling communications, and causing chaos within the enemy’s ranks.

  They were relentless. Their advance, unstoppable. But this time, the Allies were ready. The island chain was about to become a battleground unlike any had seen before, where the clash of metal and will would determine the future of the Pacific—and possibly the world.

  ***

  The Pacific just northwest of Fiji, Convoy Bravo67 – February 13th, 2040.

  The ocean stretched endless and cold beneath a slate-grey sky, the convoy churning steadily northward through the Pacific. The distant horizon blurred into a seam of steel and mist, although they still had air coverage from RNZAF P-8s out of the Solomans and Fiji, they were beyond the SOSUS net now and it was the perfect hunting ground for unseen predators. The tension had been building for hours—ever since the first faint sonar traces had appeared on the edge of the horizon.

  On the bridge of HMNZS Kiwi, Commander Millie Frampton stood with one hand gripping the brass rail, eyes locked on the bridge sonar repeater. A stray contact had been dogging the convoy from the northeast for nearly three hours—never closing, never breaking away—just lurking. Watching.

  "Bridge, CIC. Contact bearing three-four-five," the ship’s primary warfare officer Lt Dale Foxworth reported, voice clipped. "Range—fifteen thousand yards. Still shadowing. Constant bearing, decreasing range now."

  Frampton's heart thudded steadily in her chest. She glanced across the water to where Kakapo held station a thousand metres off her port beam, Commander Kalani Mackay's ship a low, dark silhouette against the choppy grey seas.

  A signal came through tight-beam laser comms—Mackay's voice calm but edged.

  "Kiwi, this is Kakapo, they're getting bolder. Want to try and box her in?"

  Frampton keyed her mic. "Agreed Kakapo. You take the eastern approach. I'll push from the south."

  “CiC, Bridge, launch the helo. Kakapo will approaching from the east, we’re gonna move in from the south, assign a grid for the helo accordingly. And alert the Hawke that we are prosecuting a target.”

  The Kiwi's engines surged as she heeled slightly to starboard, peeling away from the convoy. The heavy corvette's sleek lines cut through the swells, her hull shimmering with salt spray. Below decks, the command information centre was bathed in dim red light, the faint ping of active sonar echoing through the ship like a heartbeat.

  "CiC, Bridge. Deploy VDS," Frampton ordered. "Let's see if we can flush her out."

  The variable depth sonar winch hummed to life as the towed array unspooled into the water, sensors dipping deep beneath the waves. The world below came alive in faint echoes—cold, liquid shadows stretching out into the abyss.

  For long minutes, there was only the rhythmic sweep of the sonar and the low thrum of the engines.

  Then—

  "Contact! Submerged contact, bearing three-four-eight. Range—seventy five hundred yards. Depth—one hundred metres. Confirmed contact as Chinese type-039 Yuan-class. She's making a run for the convoy."

  Frampton's heart kicked harder. "Helm, bring us to three-four-eight. Slow to twelve knots." She picked up the mic again. “CiC, Bridge. Lock on target track and fire ASROC when ready.”

  The ship shifted beneath her feet as the Kiwi swung onto an intercept course. Across the water, Kakapo mirrored the maneuver, the two corvettes sweeping in wide arcs to bracket their prey, the two helos dipping their own sonars, completing the box. On the forward deck, a VLS door slammed open and an RUM-139 vertical launch ASROC missile, screamed skyward on a pillar of fire.

  "Kakapo, this is Kiwi, we’ve confirmed the contact as a Chinese type-039 with hostile intent, we are prosecuting." Frampton called over the comms. "He's deep, but not deep enough. We squeeze him, he won't have much room to run."

  Mackay's reply was steady. "Copy that, Kiwi. We’re doing the same. I'll push him west—see if we can make him blink."

  The Kakapo's active sonar pulsed once—twice—sending a ripple of sound through the cold water. A few seconds later, they launched their own ASROC, and the contact flickered brighter on the plot, shifting course dramatically reacting to the two torpedoes now chasing her down.

  "He's nervous," Frampton murmured.

  "Kiwi, this is Kakapo. We’ve got him bracketed, he's speeding up now—turning west trying to run."

  “Not fast enough to outrun a Mk-54 are you, ya silly prick!” Frampton mumbled to herself, her eyes locked on the sonar repeater.

  For long moments, there was only the steady pulse of sonar, the distant churn of propellers in the abyss. Then—a moment of silence followed by an almighty muffled concussive explosion

  "Bridge, CiC. Confirmed two hits. Contact breaking up."

  On the plot, the submarine's signature flared brighter caught between the two torpedoes, she had nowhere to hide. On the surface, the placid waves of the pacific erupted with an enormous white water bubble, the death rattle of the dead submarine.

  "P-WO. Signal Hawkes Bay. Target neutralised.” Frampton's pulse quickened, her hand tightening on the mic. "Helm, return to the convoy."

  This was the moment she had trained for, all those years leading up to this very moment. Every captain knew they may have to make the decision to take a life. But for all that training, you were still not prepared for how to feel when it actually happened.

  Through the mist and driving rain, the low black shapes of the heavies came back into view, barely visible against the grey horizon.

  ***

  Onboard the HMNZS Hamana, they were chasing down a threat of their own and the atmosphere in the control room was thick. They had been through this months before with the Jin-class boomer, but they were starting to learn that while experience might make it easier, it certainly didn’t make it any less terrifying — and this one was a whole different beast. The steady, quiet thrum of the submarine’s tactical systems provided a fitting background noise as the crew worked in hushed concentration.

  Hamana, trailing the relief convoy, had received an encrypted intelligence burst through the Mobile User Objective System, or MUOS satellite network from Irirangi — the Royal New Zealand Navy's signals intelligence station — indicating a suspected PLAN Type 093 Shang-class nuclear attack submarine was in the area and likely shadowing allied naval formations. The MUOS constellation, a secure U.S. military communications network, provided high-bandwidth encrypted transmissions, allowing near-instantaneous relays of critical intelligence to allied forces in the region. The Type-093s were fast, agile, and lethal hunter-killers — more than a peer adversary. It had been expected that the Chinese would send older, less capable diesel-electric boats after the convoy, but an SSN’s presence showed how truly concerned they were.

  Operating in full EMCON mode, the Hamana slipped beneath the thermocline layers of the Coral Sea, her Siemens Permasyn Electric Motors propelling her almost silently forward. Her Thales UMS 4110 CL hull-mounted sonar and Thales CAPTAS-4 Compact towed sonar array gave her a near-perfect three hundred and sixty-degree arc of detection for any faint acoustic signals. They were on the hunt and the PLAN submarine would not be able to hide for long — of that, Matsuda was sure.

  The Kiwis knew what they were looking for. Even before the war, they had played cat-and-mouse games with the Chinese, learning their signatures and tactics. It was quite easy when you were constantly underestimated. This game became much more of a necessity after the Jin-class incident from the year before when the Chinese had launched a ballistic missile less than 250km from the New Zealand coast in the Tasman Sea.

  Over long periods of time watching and listening, the Kiwis had learned that the reactor coolant pumps of each individual class emitted their own very distinct tell-tale low-frequency signature — muted but discernible if you knew what to look for. However, with the outbreak of the war, the Americans had released reams of tapes, recordings, satellite images, and intelligence on Chinese submarines. It wasn’t a complete game changer — but with the Hamana's cutting-edge sonar suite, finding the submarine wasn’t going to be the hard part. What came next — that would be the hard part.

  The Hamana's crew worked in silence, using the submarine's advanced sensors to scour the ocean depths, it wasn’t long before they were able to pick out the faint acoustic signature from the background noise. They maneuvered twice to confirm but soon enough moved in to tail the Chinese Type-093. The SSN had been dogging the convoy’s wake for hours it seemed, always just at the edge of detection, slipping in and out of the Hamana’s passive sonar range like a ghost. Matsuda begin to question why? Were they going to attack, or were they there to provide guidance for other submarines in the area.

  He soon got his answer, when the Chinese submarine altered its course to close on the convoy, Matsuda ordered a brief high speed run to get into a better position between the convoy and Type-093 — her lithium-ion battery banks allowing near-silent electric propulsion at speeds exceeding 25 knots for a considerable length of time. This was the beginning of a dogged standoff at 100 meters depth, Hamana had closed the distance quickly and slowed right down again, the battle of stealth had begun, and at this point, Hamana was winning.

  Lieutenant Commander Ken Matsuda stood behind the sonar console, arms crossed, his face impassive. His dark eyes flicked between the glowing readouts and the plotting table where the enemy submarine’s intermittent contacts were marked with red grease pencil.

  “Time between contacts is shortening,” whispered Lt Katie Murphy, the EX-O and dive officer, her voice low and calm despite the weight pressing down on the entire boat.

  “They’re getting bolder,” Matsuda agreed in his usual murmur. “It’s like they want us to know they’re here.”

  Murphy nodded. “They’re trying to rattle us.”

  “Won’t happen.”

  Matsuda’s voice carried quiet certainty, but everyone on board knew how dangerous this game of cat and mouse had become. The convoy they guarded was vital — fuel, weapons, and humanitarian supplies destined for the Korean theatre, where coalition forces were locked in a brutal struggle to contain North Korean advances along the peninsula. If the Chinese could sink even one or two ships from the convoy, the ripples would spread across the entire southern Pacific.

  “Sonar, anything new?” Matsuda asked.

  Sub-Lt Victor Müller, the Principal Warfare Officer, leaned closer to his station. The tall Swiss-New Zealander had been glued to his screens for hours, tuning the Hamana’s sophisticated passive array to pick out the whisper of the Shang’s reactor from the background murmur of the ocean.

  “There,” Müller said suddenly. “Bearing two-four-five. Very faint. Two to three knots. He’s creeping.”

  Matsuda’s heart rate ticked up, though his face betrayed nothing.

  “They’re trying to slink in close under the baffles,” Murphy said.

  “Not at that speed, more likely positioning for a snapshot missile attack on the convoy,” Matsuda replied. “P-WO what’s their depth now?”

  “Steady at 150 metres Skipper, they’re dipping in and out.” Müller replied.

  The Type-093 was a formidable opponent — faster, larger, and better armed than the Hamana’s Mako-class diesel-electric hull. But what the Kiwis lacked in brute force, they made up for in skill, patience, and technology.

  “Nav, plot an intercept course. Helm, twenty degrees port. Make turns for six knots.”

  Lt Ananya Gupta acknowledged softly, fingers dancing over the touchscreen plotting table. The Hamana began to shift almost imperceptibly, turning onto the new bearing.

  “Our depth?” Matsuda asked.

  “One hundred meters,” Murphy answered. “Thermocline layer at one-fifty.”

  He nodded. The thermocline — that invisible layer of temperature shift in the water — could mask their presence if they played it right. But it would mask the Chinese boat just as well.

  “He’s slipping above to get a better read on the convoy, then dropping back below to avoid detection, cunning bastard!” Matsuda murmured.

  Hours ticked by in near silence as the two submarines maneuvered against each other in the blackness. The only sounds were the quiet hum of electronics, the creak of the pressure hull, and the faint, measured breath of the crew.

  Then, without warning, the Type-093 made its move.

  “Contact accelerating,” Müller hissed. “Bearing two-four-eight. Speed now twelve knots — she’s coming around on an attack bearing, right at us! Depth now 100 metres!”

  Matsuda’s voice was ice-calm. “Helm, all stop. P-WO Flood tubes one and two and open outer doors.”

  The Hamana’s 92metre length and 4,300tons submerged displacement didn’t exactly freeze in the water, but it was close. They would give the Chinese nothing to hear but the endless silence of the deep. The seconds stretched painfully.

  “Range?”

  “Five thousand meters... closing,” Müller whispered. “Four thousand.”

  Matsuda’s mind raced. The Chinese captain was good — too good. He was pushing them, daring them to react first. But Matsuda had no intention of being the hunted.

  “Steady,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

  “Three thousand... still closing.”

  “Let him come,” Matsuda murmured. “Just a little closer.”

  “Two thousand.”

  “Fire one.”

  There was a soft thunk as the first Mk-54 Mod 7 CBASS torpedo shot from its tube, its engine remaining cold as it glided silently through the water. The weapon was launched in swim-out mode — a method where compressed air propelled the torpedo clear of the submarine without activating its motor, minimizing acoustic signature until the crew engaged its propulsion system at the optimal moment.

  “Fire two.”

  Another weapon streaked into the darkness. The Hamana’s fire control computer, a cutting-edge CMS-420 combat management system, worked silently — fusing sonar data, target motion analysis, and tactical algorithms to calculate the intercepts. The CMS-420 interfaced directly with the wire-guided Mk-54 torpedoes through encrypted telemetry pulses, allowing real-time adjustments to their trajectories. Its advanced predictive algorithms integrated the sonar returns with target behaviour patterns, enhancing the crew's ability to anticipate evasive manoeuvres and optimize weapon paths, enabling the tactical officers on board to make mid-course corrections as the torpedoes glided toward their prey with lethal precision.

  “One’s active,” Müller whispered. “Two’s active.”

  The distant sound of the torpedo motors igniting filled the control room — a dull, angry growl through the hydrophones.

  “Any returns?” Matsuda queried.

  “No, nothing.” Müller replied.

  “Hmmm odd, maybe not as good as I thought.” Matsuda mused.

  “Or his tubes are full of missiles.” Murphy added.

  “Contact turning — he’s running,” Müller called. “Deploying countermeasures.”

  “He’s got nowhere to run.” Matsuda’s voice was almost gentle.

  The seconds stretched, each one a lifetime. Then the sonar screens flared bright — the unmistakable bloom of a detonation, followed by another. The first torpedo had impacted forward of the sail and ruptured the pressure hull, the second had struck aft as she turned, destroying the propeller and driveshaft assembly.

  “Contact breaking up,” Müller said, unable to keep the triumph out of his voice. “We got him.”

  A subdued ripple of relief passed through the crew, but Matsuda remained still, eyes locked on the screen. His mind churned beneath the surface calm — the brief satisfaction of victory tempered by the knowledge that the ocean was vast and the enemy relentless. He replayed the engagement in his head, analysing each decision, each maneuver. There would be more to come, and every lesson learned here could mean the difference between life and death in the battles ahead.

  “Helm, make turns for five knots,” he said finally. “Take us down to three-fifty. Let's be sure.”

  The Hamana slipped silently into the depths, leaving the shattered hulk of the Chinese nuclear submarine to sink into the cold darkness. It was a victory — hard-won, deadly — but only one small battle in a war that was spreading across the Pacific like wildfire.

  Murphy leaned in close to Matsuda.

  “Feels weird...”

  Matsuda glanced at her. “What does?”

  “The detachment, we just killed a submarine sure, but how many men were on board, it’s hard to reconcile.” She replied.

  “It’s our job,” Matsuda stated with his usual cold pragmatism, shrugging his shoulders. “It was theirs too, we all know the risks, we just have to hope that it stays them and not us on the receiving end.”

  Matsuda turned away from his EX-O for a moment, he needed to get his own thoughts in line, but when he turned back, he was all business. “Helm, resume base course and speed, bring us back in line with the convoy and take us up to periscope depth, we have a report to send.”

  The Hamana slipped away undetected, a lone predator in the vast Pacific, leaving no trace except the silence that followed.