HMNZS Tangaroa – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 07.17LT

  The horizon was on fire. They had confirmed reports of one carrier sinking, one heavily damaged by that ballsy strafing run.

  Mason stood in Tangaroa’s CIC, the calm at the centre of a maelstrom. His hands were constant movement, subtle but there. The nervousness of a pilot aching to be in the action, eyes locked to the main tactical board. Dozens of red contacts danced at the edge of detection, their signatures flickering in and out behind clouds, flares, jamming bursts. The Chinese had gotten much better at this, and it was showing,

  Outside, the war raged — missile trails etched across the sky, carriers and destroyers vomiting smoke into the morning light. HMNZS Achilles HMAS Queensland and HMNZS Gallipoli were circling like angry wolves, their considerable VLS cells expended, but their HELIOS-TWK Mk1 directed Energy Weapon systems still slapping targets out of the sky. Amongst it all, the aircraft from four nations duelled for dominance, the air was thick with contrails and death.

  “Sea Eagles engaging bandits south-east bearing zero-eight-five,” a voice called. “Reaper flight inbound with jammers online. They're suppressing the enemy radars now.”

  “Keep them up,” Mason replied, voice even. “No gaps. If the Chinese get through, we die.”

  He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Tangaroa had been in worse spots before. She’d lost men, metal, whole aircraft off the deck. But she’d always come back. Enterprise was still with them, as was Australia, still hard fighting, launching and recovering aircraft.

  He trusted his crew. Trusted the pilots overhead. Trusted the battle plan.

  But still, something gnawed at the edge of his thoughts — something just off-screen. A feeling. A rhythm gone wrong. He saw a new wave of small blips on the display and ordered Tangaroa to shift east, to cover Enterprise. They had the lasers, the American ship for all its strengths, did not.

  “Sir,” one of the operators called from the EW console. “I’m seeing intermittent pings... could be spoofed returns, could be ghosts. Some of the J-35s are circling back.”

  “Which vector?”

  “Zero-three-one. Low. Could be a damaged bird trying to RTB.”

  Mason moved to the operator’s station and peered over her shoulder. The track was erratic. No jamming signature, no communications. Just a blip. Barely faster than a cruise missile.

  “Get eyes on it. CIC to bridge—”

  Too late.

  The world jolted.

  A sound like the tearing of steel filled the CIC. Then a muffled boom from above and forward, deep and hollow — not a detonation, not quite. Something worse. The sea god was screaming, to the tune of tearing metal.

  The screens blanked for half a second, sparks flew from consoles. The lights flickered ominously. Then came the alarms.

  “Impact! Impact!” came a metallic sounding voice through the ship’s intercom. “Forward on the flight deck! Damage Repair crews to your stations!”

  Mason didn’t hesitate. He was already moving — bolting out of CIC, down the corridor, past running crew, smoke curling into the vents, he could smell the ship burning. He should’ve stayed in the chair. Should’ve let the XO coordinate. But he needed to see it.

  He needed to know.

  By the time he made it topside, slamming through the door to the island, the damage was obvious. Black smoke billowed up from the bow. Flames danced where the flight deck had been — twisted wreckage and shredded fuselage. Sailors scrambled with extinguishers and stretchers, screaming orders through the chaos. Somewhere, someone was still alive, trapped beneath plating.

  The automated fire suppression system kicked in, large vents opening along the keel, sucking in thousands of litres of saltwater, pulling it through pipes spread through the massive capital ship and spraying it from nozzles embedded everywhere. The salt water was mixed in the desalination plant with a special chemical which made it foam, it was no good for prolonged contact with the skin, but it was death to fire.

  Mason made his way forward. The deck awash, he could see the hole now, the fire was already under control, but the hole was massive, easily the size of a tennis court. The front catapults were totalled. He pulled the radio from his belt and pushed the button.

  “Damage control, this is the Admiral, how bad is it?”

  “Admiral, this is Steveson in forward control one, we have the fires below decks contained, I can’t do anything about the leaky roof, but the floor’s are ok, she’ll float.”

  Mason sighed with relief and turned back towards the island. He happened to look up and there, on the edge of the carrier’s superstructure, stood Captain Cayden MacNiell. His first command the pride of the Royal New Zealand Navy had taken a serious wound.

  The captain’s face was grey. Not with soot — with shock. Their eyes met across the gulf of smoke and fire. No words needed. Just the truth written between them.

  Tangaroa. The sea god herself was hurt, and for the first time in the war, Mason felt something crack inside his chest. Not fear. Not even rage. Just the kind of cold, hollow fury that came when you realised — someone had slipped the knife in. When you realised you should’ve seen it coming.

  When you realised the reckoning was still to come.

  He turned back toward the dying flames, watching as damage control teams hauled more hoses forward. Overhead, another J-35 banked sharply, its shadow sweeping over the scarred deck like a vulture, before it was shredded by an incoming F-15N with a point blank gunshot. The debris falling harmlessly into the sea beside them.

  Emboldened and through the ringing in his ears, through the acrid taste of burning composite, and the sea water cascading over his body, flattening his hair and drenching his uniform, turning it an ominous dark black. Mason walked to the centre of the flightdeck, leaned back, threw his arms out wide and screamed to the heavens the words that would define the next phase of the war:

  “Not today motherfuckers!.

  ***

  Oceania at North Port – Whangarei. February 10th, 2041. 10.27LT

  Mason stood on the flightdeck of Tangaroa, staring out across the still waters of Whangārei Harbour. The sea was calm today — unnaturally so. Below him, the rhythmic thud of welding hammers echoed through the ship, a dull heartbeat of reconstruction. Forward of the island, her flight deck looked like a field surgeon’s table: cut open, sutures visible, scars still raw.

  The bent burnt and buckled deck plates were being cut away and lifted off the deck by dock cranes from the pier. The same cranes would then lift new plates onto the deck, lowering them into place for the welding crews to get to work.

  The J-35 had done more damage than they had first realised. Not fatal — not even close — but deep. The forward EMALS catapults were gone, slagged by heat and shredded steel, but there was no structural damage to the bow. The flightdeck had taken the worst of it, but the damage had not reached beyond the hangar deck. Avionics cabling cooked under layers of composite. The portside deck plating had buckled under the explosion's pressure wave, compromising two ammunition elevators. In any other navy, she would be out for a year. In New Zealand’s? She would be back in four months, five at most.

  Because there was no other choice.

  Enterprise sat across the harbour, hunkered in the only drydock on the island large enough to take her. Her deck was scorched. Her elevators groaned. But like Tangaroa, she had survived. And survival meant everything now.

  The battle hadn’t ended that morning. It had gone on for days — a grinding brawl and slow retreat in the air and at sea. Waves of fighters from the carriers and from airfields on shore dueled in the sky. Submarines trading torpedoes in the dark. The Chinese had tried again and again to push through to New Guinea. But again and again, the Alliance had said no. The reinforcements from Suva and Devonport had arrived just in time — Gallipoli and Ranginui, among them. Their arrival had turned the tide.

  Barely.

  No one had won. Not really. But like the Alliance forces, the Chinese had pulled back. Which was a win of sorts.

  They were bleeding, same as the Alliance was. One carrier confirmed lost. Multiple amphibious ships sunk. Dozens of support vessels crippled or turned back. And another carrier — Lanzhou, if the analysts were right — limped back to Hainan with fires still flickering on her flight and hangar deck. The cost had been steep, but the line had held.

  Now both sides were caught in the same trap of recovery.

  Tangaroa stayed in the fight, throughout November, stretching well into December, she stayed on station covering the withdrawal. She could still launch from the angle deck. Still recover — but not at the same time. She was a one-lunged giant in those days after the battle — still dangerous, but also, very vulnerable.

  Enterprise was in no better shape. Rear Admiral Garrett was equal parts incensed and tired. The repair estimates on the American carrier were ridiculous, they said it would be more than a year, the boys at Oceania six to eight months. The truth was probably somewhere in between.

  Mason stepped forward to the railing, his hand brushing against a new weld bead — rough, recent, still warm to the touch. He closed his eyes, listening to the distant screech of grinders and the deep hum of generators ashore.

  They had lost a lot of good ships and even more good people. The Americans most of all. Now Mason knew how Nimitz must have felt after the Battle of the Coral Sea — standing on a battered deck, staring at a horizon that promised only more bloodshed. For both sides, it had been equal parts victory and defeat. Survival disguised as success.

  His long time friend, Captain Caleb Rawlinson, had taken Canterbury and the Gallipoli group back to Suva, to rearm and wait for the next round.

  Rear Admiral Scotty Hutchinson had taken HMNZS Ranginui somewhere beyond the horizon. She and HMAS Australia were on northern patrol. Navy divers were extending the SOSUS net, sweeping for Chinese submarines that might still be lurking, and the carriers were guarding them. The enemy had gone to ground, or to water. Signals intelligence suggested they were pulling back too. Reorganising. Nursing their wounds.

  Mason didn’t trust the silence.

  “You alright, sir?” a voice behind him asked. It was his steward Chief Petty Officer Henare.

  “Just thinking James,” Mason replied, not turning. “Wondering how long the quiet will last.”

  Henare stepped up beside the Admiral, offering a datapad. It showed structural stress readings, flight deck repair timelines, updated sortie capacity estimates. Numbers. Metrics. Calm data that belied the war they were still in. “The Captain asked me to give you this. I also wanted you to know, that I have packed your bags, the car is waiting for us on the pier.”

  “Thanks James. It’s off to our new adventure, I suppose”

  “Yes sir,” Henare replied

  They stood in silence for a moment. Below them, work continued. Across the harbour, Enterprise’s deck cranes swung slowly, moving something massive beneath tarp.

  They were off to the airport, first to Wellington to deliver his report in person, then away to Darwin and his temporary posting. Fitzpatrick had said it was permanent, that he could no longer afford to risk his most senior field commander at sea anymore. But Mason would make sure it was temporary.

  Beyond the horizon, the Pacific was not at rest. Both fleets were licking their wounds. This was no ceasefire. No truce. Just the kind of lull that came before a bigger storm.

  And when it came, Tangaroa would be ready, and Mason would sail with her.

  ***

  War Cabinet, Inner Ring, The Beehive – Wellington. February 11th, 2041. 14.00LT

  The room was quiet but humming with contained tension. Inside the secure inner chamber of The Beehive’s subterranean War Cabinet suite, digital maps glowed softly on the far wall, projecting red and blue lines stretching across the Pacific and into Southeast Asia. The air had the clinical chill of a bunker, a deliberate design — no warmth, no distraction, only duty and the décor of a building not updated since it was opened in 1979.

  The reinforced doors of the War Cabinet chamber swung closed with a hush of recycled air. Inside, the Inner Ring was already assembling, a mix of tailored suits and crisp uniforms. Summer sun filtered through the security-glazed windows, casting long lines of gold across polished wood and frosted glass.

  Prime Minister Miriama Kahu stood at the head of the long table, serene but focused. She wore a cream blouse and a flax-patterned blazer, the koru brooch pinned to her chest a quiet reminder of mana and service. To her right, Deputy Prime Minister Craig du Plessis leaned forward on folded arms, a tablet in front of him already alive with projections and graphs. His sharp green eyes flicked up as the doors opened again.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Vice Admiral Malachi Mason entered, summer whites immaculate, gold on his uniform glinting subtly under the overheads. He carried the calm weight of someone who had lived through fire and not blinked. Behind him, Chief of Defence Air Marshal Jonathan Robson, Chief of Navy Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick, Chief of Army General Willy Clarkson and Chief of Air Force Air Marshal Tania Grey, who smiled at the Prime Minister as she entered, the two women sharing a moment of friendship between them. NZSIS Director Charles Sinclair, and Defence Minister Kevin MacNielty were the last to take their seats.

  "Haere Mai Admiral," Kahu said with a warm, steady voice, nodding Mason forward. "Welcome home."

  Mason gave a crisp nod, then took the floor. "Thank you, Prime Minister. Ministers."

  He activated the secure digital display projector at the centre of the table. Tactical overlays swept into view on the large screen behind him. The Bismarck Sea, the fleet actions, Tangaroa and Enterprise’s positions, the Chinese withdrawal lines. How the battle had played out, and where they had been since.

  "Our forces held the line. But barely. The battle stretched over several days following the kamikaze strike. But the initial strikes, the coordination, with submarines and missile strikes was almost flawless and almost had us, if it wasn’t our own tactic, it very well might have.” Mason paused and let that sink in. “The Chinese are learning and their doing it very fast.”

  “After the initial attack, we believe it was the loss of one of their Type-004-class and critical damage to the other, Lanzhou we think, which forced the Chinese withdrawal. Their amphibious groups were mauled badly in the initial exchange and subsequent exchanges later. Subsurface activity has dropped off, and our satellite net confirms several of their escort fleet was also lost."

  Du Plessis gave a low whistle. "And us?"

  Mason didn’t hesitate. "We lost five major combatants, one of hours Auckland went down with all hands, Sydney was cut in two and also went down, there were very few survivors. The rest were American losses, their fleets have a taken an unfair pounding in this war so far, their tech is as good as ours, but their ships are much older, and it shows.”

  “We have several ships under repair or in drydock, including Tangaroa and Enterprise. Casualties are still being counted even now, but initial reports put it above a thousand lost, wounded is almost as many across all Alliance vessels."

  A beat of silence. Then Kahu asked, gently, "And you, Admiral?"

  Mason met her eyes, there was warmth there it was clear for him to see, Kahu was concerned. It was one of the reasons he liked her. "I’m standing Prime Minister, thank you for your concern. As is Tangaroa, I will take her out again." His eyes drifting to meet Fitzpatrick’s, as if to emphasise that point.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way Admiral. Thank you for delivering your report personally, I know you are a busy man.”

  “To be fair, they are called orders Ma’am, but I appreciate your thanks anyway.” He said with a small smile. A light murmur of laughter spread amongst the assembled crowd, even the Prime Minister smiled. Mason placed his hat on his head and saluted sharply, before turning on his heels and leaving the room.

  Murmurs and whispers of conversation followed the Admiral’s departure. Then Du Plessis leaned in.

  "We’ve dealt them a serious blow, Miri. Now is the time to press the advantage. Let’s lean into their moment of weakness — we own the airspace over New Britain, we have reinforced the Solomons corridor, we should deploy our bombers from Tindal strike deep into Indonesia and the Philippines. We can box them in."

  MacNielty held up a hand. "Craig, I know you're eager, but we’re running on fumes here. Munition reserves are low, ship rotations are strained, and we need to reorganise to cover our losses. Our industry is at full tilt already. We can’t go charging into another major operation so soon, not without a logistical reset."

  "We don’t need a reset," Du Plessis shot back, "we need resolve, where is your fire Kevin, the fire that started this whole thing off."

  "Gentlemen," Kahu said, in her soft voice, that hit like iron, "enough. This isn’t a rugby scrum."

  A pause. Then she turned to Charles Sinclair.

  "Charles. Intelligence assessment please?"

  Sinclair leaned forward. Impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his eyes were bloodshot, but alert.

  "There are anomalies in the post-battle signal traffic. The Admiral’s assessment was very accurate. They are reeling as badly as we are, they still have many more surface combatants, but their carrier numbers have dwindled to four from ten.” He stated, checking his tablet. “They have apparently pulled back to the first island chain and the South China Sea, to regroup and rebuild.”

  “For how long?” Kahu said, Sinclair looked like he was about to answer, but she raised her hand, before he could, and he realised it was rhetorical.

  “General Clarkson, how about you, how are our boys and girls doing on the ground.”

  The General took control of the remote and started putting up screens. “We are holding Prime Minister. Casualties are far higher than estimated, but still well within margins, I know that sounds callous, it’s not meant too, more to illustrate that the situation could be very much worse.”

  He too looked around the table, pausing for effect. “We are holding the line in every theatre. The Solomans, Papua New Guinea. The Indians are having a worse time, but they too are holding. The Bangladeshis are proving very adept however, with their shenanigans against the Chinese. That infiltration job they pulled off to get the Brits into Singapore last year, was masterful. They’ve done it multiple times since, the Chinese have put quite the price on their heads.”

  Clarkson ran through a few screens on his tablet, making sure that he had covered everything.

  “We are in a holding pattern for now.” He finished.

  The Prime Minister nodded.

  “Air Marshal Grey?” Kahu asked next.

  “Prime Minister, losses are minimal, our bomber and attack squadrons are harassing the Chinese night and day. The CANZUK air war campaign has been a masterstroke so far in planning and execution.”

  “Admiral, do you have anything to add to Mason’s report?”

  “No ma’am. Other than the Canadian’s are performing very well on convoy duty, and our submarines are causing considerable havoc in the South China sea.”

  Those present began to put their tablets and notebooks back in their briefcases and made ready to leave.

  “Prime Minister, if I may?” Sinclair asked. She nodded so he continued. “Our systems flagged a pattern during the sea battle— data clusters tagged 'Karere/11.' At first we thought it was just misrouting or encrypted drone telemetry, but it doesn’t match anything from our side, and it bounced through servers too many to count."

  "Spoofing?" asked Robson.

  Sinclair looked thoughtful for a moment.

  "Possibly. But it’s old. Embedded. Almost… parasitic." Sinclair checked his tablet again. “Funnily enough, it tried to go through that old intel site we bombed on the Solomans back before this all started.”

  MacNielty started oddly, but recovered and frowned. It was so quick, it was next to imperceptible, but Sinclair caught it. He had no idea what it might mean, so decided to say nothing and catalogue it in memory for later.

  "You think the Chinese got something into our systems?" The Defence Minister asked.

  "Not conclusively. But it was active during the battle, and it’s been bouncing between subnetworks ever since. It also matches the signals we took from that spy ship year before last.” Sinclair took a breath. He didn’t look completely defeated, just tired. “I could do with some help on it to be honest, with taking on the Alliance intelligence network, I’m over stretched as it is.”

  “I have already assigned Walker to assist you." The Prime Minister stated. “Is that all right with you Oliver?”

  Oliver Walker, seated quietly near the end of the table, looked up at the mention of his name. His suit was perfectly tailored, though his tie was crooked, his eyes were sharp.

  "Yes Ma’am, I’ve already begun auditing the flagged packets," he said, voice measured. "There are inconsistencies. Ghost pings. Data trails with no origin point. Some of it appears to mimic Allied communications — others are just noise. But it’s all clustered around one thing: a blacked-out node in our Antarctic relay net."

  That got attention.

  "Antarctica?" Du Plessis asked. "What the hell’s out there?"

  "That's what we’re trying to find out," Sinclair replied grimly, looking at Walker with a hint of respect. "But patterns are forming. And patterns, in our line of work, usually mean intent."

  Kahu sat back slowly, hands flat on the table. For a moment, she said nothing, studying the back of her hands, counting the veins, wondering when the skin got so papery. "Very well. Charles — keep digging. Mr. Walker, you are now permanently assigned to SIS as Deputy Director of Intelligence and have full tasking authority under Sinclair. Find out what this Karere/11 is, and whether it’s watching us — or whispering to someone else."

  She looked around the table. They all looked concerned, some more than others.

  "The storm hasn’t passed. It’s simply changed direction. Let’s not be caught looking the wrong way." The Prime Minister stated with finality, closing that chapter.

  The meeting continued — but a different kind of war had already begun.

  ***

  Seventh Floor, Pipitea Street - Wellington. February 20th, 2041. 17.42LT

  The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

  Oliver Walker stepped out, credentials clipped to his lapel, shoulder bag heavy with the burden of new access codes, analyst briefs, and the first fragments of Karere/11 packet logs. The scent here was antiseptic, air scrubbed and recirculated, and the halls felt like they’d been designed not just to protect secrets — but to absorb them.

  This was the inner sanctum. NZSIS Operational Wing, Level Seven — the floor where the real conversations happened. The windows were narrow, blast-reinforced. The art on the walls wasn’t art at all but photorealistic topography — relief maps of disputed islands and straits no one ever talked about publicly.

  It had taken several days to clear his exit from the parliamentary suite and position he held there as senior advisor to the Prime Minister. He was eager to start his new assignment, but now that he was here, he felt a level of trepidation, he didn’t think possible.

  A young analyst met him at the checkpoint and handed him a card with quiet deference. “This gives you full Tier-1 access to the Southern Net and Red Tide archives. You’ve been assigned the suite next to Director Sinclair’s office. Room 714.”

  “Thank you,” Walker replied, already scanning the door labels. He was equal parts surprised and not to see the guard at the security station armed with a pistol. That was very uncommon in New Zealand.

  The suite was modest. One desk. One chair. Two screens. A coat hook and a kettle that looked like it had seen more secrets than most people. A stack of sealed files had already been delivered — black folders with red bands. Nothing digital unless it had to be. A thin envelope sat on top, marked in Sinclair’s hand:

  "Start with the transmission logs. You'll see the pattern soon enough. – C.S."

  Walker exhaled and placed the envelope on the desk, then turned and looked through the frosted glass into the corridor. Through the blur, he saw Sinclair’s shadow pause at his own office door, then knock lightly on the frame.

  “Don’t just stand there,” came the voice. “Come on. We’ve earned a terrible meal.”

  ***

  Cafeteria, Sub-Level 3, Pipitea Street – Wellington. February 20th, 2041. 18.17LT

  The cafeteria was a relic from a different decade — dull vinyl floors, a viewless basement wall, a humming row of vending machines that hadn’t been stocked with anything edible since the Clark government. The food was government-issued, cooked by a chef who clearly had no illusions about their clientele.

  Walker and Sinclair sat at a small table in the corner, trays in front of them. Both men had declined the “butter chicken” in favour of the safer option — ham and cheese sandwiches and black coffee.

  Sinclair stirred his cup with a plastic spoon. “You’ll hate this place,” he said conversationally. “Fluorescent lighting. A hundred people too smart for their own good. And the only café within walking distance serves coffee that tastes like wet bark, Thorndon Chippery around the corner though is excellent.”

  “I’ll manage,” Walker said, eyes flicking around the room. “My old office was a converted storage closet at Parliament. This is an upgrade.”

  Sinclair chuckled dryly. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Then, as if reaching a mutual checkpoint, Sinclair looked at Walker properly for the first time.

  “You’re not like the others,” he said, without accusation. “Not a career spook. Not military. You think sideways. I like that.”

  Walker sipped his coffee. “You’re not like most agency heads, either. You think forwards. That’s why Kahu put us together.”

  Another pause. Mutual appraisal.

  Sinclair leaned back, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Karere/11 isn’t just an anomaly. It’s something deeper. It's embedded in our own systems — but only becomes active when certain conditions are met. Patterns in the signal. Specific routing protocols. Like it’s waiting for something.”

  Walker nodded slowly. “And you think it might not be Chinese?”

  “I’m not sure what I think,” Sinclair admitted. “But it’s old. And buried deep. And it’s watching us, not attacking us.”

  Walker’s brow furrowed. “You think it’s ours?”

  Sinclair’s eyes flicked away, then back. “That’s your job now. Find out who built it. And what they’re waiting for.”

  The silence stretched again. Across the room, a microwave dinged with depressing finality, the smell of burnt processed cheese wafted over to them.

  Sinclair stood, balancing his tray with one hand. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we start digging.”

  Walker nodded, not moving. Just staring into the depths of his coffee cup, where his own reflection looked back — quiet, sharp, and already in too deep.

  ***

  No.09 San Sebastion Road – Wellington. February 22nd, 2041. 18.17LT

  ….Goodnight.”

  Taipari’s voice faded into the soft stylings of a concerto for strings no.1, with the back drop of a light jazz undertone. The fake fire on the far wall provided most of the light in the room, reflecting off the many and varied glass surfaces, from the large sliding door window to the left, to the hulking glass coffee table in front of him.

  He was leaned back in the soft comfortable white sofa, a half full glass of a local and expensive merlot threatening to spill at any moment onto the plush white wool carpeting. He considered hitting refresh on the media player again, but decided against it. He head listened to the man’s words three times already. He couldn’t fault the sentiment, but Taipari was rapidly becoming a house hold name, a rallying cry, and that meant bad things for his side.

  No one knew of this property, or at least he was almost certain that no one knew. It was a three story split level townhouse built into the side of a small hill, one of those use all available space kind of ventures. It was in the name of Rose Townsend. He had no idea who Rose had been, or would have been, her resting place was somewhere in the middle of Karori Cemetery.

  He had been overly cautious since the impromptu meeting in Leuven last year. He had also upped his game. Beijing had been most impressed with his work — so much so, they had let the leash out again.

  And now, at last, he could breathe.

  Not fully, of course. A man like him never truly let his lungs fill. But the pressure on his chest had eased. The coded check-ins had grown less frequent. His handlers had returned to their old tones — clipped, formal, perfunctory. No more cryptic threats. No more tests dressed as tasks. He was back in the fold.

  He took a long sip of the merlot and let it settle.

  The apartment was perfect — a ghost property, clean title, utilities pre-paid, and no history beyond a dead woman buried two suburbs away. He had done his due diligence. In the spy-craft world, paranoia wasn’t a mental disorder — it was a virtue.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the growing sense that the board was shifting again.

  Taipari’s speech lingered in his thoughts. It wasn’t the rhetoric — he could tune that out. It was the movement. The swell beneath the words. A country rediscovering its pride. That kind of sentiment didn’t bode well for shadow work. Pride made people alert. And dangerous. The sentiment was becoming more uplifting, he could feel the surge in the populous, like cresting a wave.

  Whether he would ride it out, or be consumed by it, only time would tell. He leaned forward, set the glass down on a coaster with surgical precision, and pulled a slim laptop from the side table drawer. No fingerprint scanner. No biometrics. Just a disposable shell, built for one thing, access.

  The VPN flickered to life.

  His fingers danced across the screen, eyes narrowing slightly. Defence network topology maps. Names. Rotations. Cyber-warfare training dates. All old, weeks sometimes years out of date. These were the leftovers from when he sat as the Defence Minister. His clearances had well and truly lapsed — naturally. But the structure was still there. The framework. He just needed a way back in, anything that might lead to something he could use.

  He paused.

  One word had caught his eye.

  Karere.

  No photo. Just a clearance tier. A recent flag. Attached to a recent ping from NZSIS. And tagged with something… This was... curious.

  Liu tapped the word, bookmarked the trail. Then leaned back into the sofa, where had he seen that word before? He rummaged through his recent memory, it was eidetic, as most good spies had, but he couldn’t find it.

  He leapt off the couch, slamming his knee in to the table and toppling the glass, wine spilling out and spreading with menace across the white carpet like a blood stain, but he didn’t care. He was already moving down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom, rubbing his knee as he went.

  He found it in the closet, in the small electronic safe behind the false wall, the drive was under his pistol, loaded and ready. He raced back to the lap top and plugged in the drive. It took a minute for the laptop to sync with the older drive and file architecture.

  A single photo appeared on the screen, it was grainy and old. A scan of a newspaper article from the Auckland Herald, dated July 10th, 1985. The article was centred around the sinking of a Greenpeace ship used to protest against nuclear testing in the pacific. The details in the story about project Karere were sparse at best, but they were mentioned, and it triggered something in his brain.

  Why was SIS looking into something so old?

  The faintest of smiles brushing the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know what Project Karere was — not yet. But he would.

  Beijing liked results. And he was ready to deliver them again.