Indonesia. June to August 2040


    With the fall of the Philippines, Chinese forces began to tighten their grip on the South China Sea, but their expansion into Indonesia was a hard-fought and costly campaign. As they pushed southward, landing in key coastal regions, they encountered stiff resistance from the Indonesian military, which had been preparing for this moment for years. Every island, every atoll, every patch of shoreline had been transformed into a fortress.


    The Indonesians, with their rugged terrain and vast archipelago, had created an intricate network of defensive positions, laced with mines, camouflaged artillery emplacements, and fortified bunkers. The waters around their islands were treacherous, with anti-ship missile batteries lined up along key maritime routes, while coastal and air defences turned every assault into a deadly gamble.


    The Chinese had expected swift victories, but they were instead met with a bloody, grinding stalemate. As Chinese soldiers tried to advance, they were mired in a relentless war of attrition. The Indonesian forces, not burdened by logistical chains stretched thin by the Chinese, fought fiercely for every inch.


    Special Forces and guerrilla units made use of the dense jungles and the complex archipelago to launch ambushes, and every assault left the People’s Liberation Army with heavy casualties. The war was no longer a march to victory — just a brutal slog, where progress was measured in blood and inches. The Chinese, not accustomed to this kind of defence, were beginning to feel the weight of the Indonesian resolve.


    Meanwhile, to the west, the main thrust of China’s eastern command had skirted the besieged Singapore, cutting a wide swath through the jungles and advancing across the Strait of Malacca. As Chinese forces landed on Sumatra’s shores, they moved swiftly, though cautiously, down through the island’s mountainous interior.


    The logistical challenges were immense, but the Indonesians had done everything they could to slow the advance, knowing that this was the line that could either break or save their homeland. The Chinese were relentless in their pursuit, but progress was slow, and they were making far fewer gains than they had anticipated.


    In Jakarta, the Chinese western forces had finally arrived after months of brutal fighting, having driven down from the Philippines, across Luzon and Mindanao. The city’s outskirts were now under siege, and while the Indonesian capital was not yet fully under Chinese control, the pressure was mounting. The streets were littered with debris from airstrikes, and smoke billowed over the skyline as the last bastion of Indonesian resistance prepared for its final stand. Shelters overflowed, hospitals ran on fumes, and every night the streets echoed with both defiance and despair. The Indonesian military, having already fought fierce battles to delay the Chinese advance, was running out of options. But Jakarta, with its population swelling into a sea of desperate civilians, became that symbol of defiance—a final desperate cry to hold the line, no matter the cost.


    Yet, as brutal as the Chinese assault had been, there was a silver lining for the Indonesians and the Alliance alike. With the conquered nations already harbouring hatred for their new Chinese overlords, the People’s Liberation Army had been forced to leave behind significant numbers as garrisons to control the occupied territories, their advance too quick for replacements to be sought from the mainland, in a timely manner. Their supply lines were stretched even thinner, now that they had to maintain a presence in every conquered region to quell uprisings and maintain control, draining their resources and manpower. The Chinese were now split between two fronts: the advancing war machine and the need to secure their hard-won territory. With many of their forces tied down in garrisons, the Alliance saw an opportunity.


    While Indonesia was fighting valiantly, every day spent in resistance was a victory of sorts. It allowed the Alliance to regroup, reinforce, and prepare for a counteroffensive. The Chinese might be advancing, but their momentum was faltering, their forces dispersed and vulnerable.


    ***


    The Beehive – Wellington. August 7th, 2040 – 15:15 Local Time


    The war room beneath the Beehive always smelled faintly of ozone and stress. Cold light filtered from recessed panels above, casting stark reflections off polished tabletops and digital screens. Maps of the Pacific blinked and pulsed, alive with movement — a sweep of arcs, pins, and zones of interest. Red for China. Blue for allies. Too much red.


    Prime Minister Miriama Kahu stood at the head of the table, watching as those red markers slid farther and farther into Indonesia, arms folded, expression tight. She wasn’t angry — not yet — but she was getting there. Indonesia was slowing the Chinese advance — too many islands, too much water. Even the PLA couldn’t drive tanks across the ocean. This was shaping up to be an island-hopping campaign — and for all its rapid growth and modernisation, the New Zealand Army just wasn’t prepared for that. They had trained for Europe and Australia, not for island archipelagos, that’s what the Navy was for.


    The silence from her defence chiefs wasn’t helping her mood in the slightest.


    “Let me get this straight,” she said at last, turning back to face the men and women sitting around the table, her voice even but loaded. “There are only two—two—marine units in the region, and neither of them are ours. And we’re supposed to what? Count on the Americans to show up on time if someone starts planting flags on some reef we’ve never heard of?”


    Miriama paused for a beat, to let her words sink in. “In case you haven’t noticed, they haven’t been doing too well lately.”


    Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick, Chief of Navy, shifted in his seat. “With respect, Prime Minister, the Australians have some capability. HMAS Canberra, Adelaide—the 2nd Royal Australian Regiment amphibious group—”


    “And how many of those report to me?” she interrupted.


    Silence.


    “Exactly,” she said. Her gaze slid across the table to Lieutenant General Willy Clarkson, the man sitting at the top of the New Zealand Army. “Say we need to land a force on an island. Hard and fast. Take and hold. How good is the Army at storming beaches?”


    Clarkson didn’t flinch. He never did — he looked like a man carved out of old wood and stubbornness.


    “They can do it,” Clarkson admitted. “But it’s not our doctrine. Not anymore. We’re built for air-mobile, jungle, counterinsurgency. Not beachheads under fire.”


    “Right,” Kahu muttered, dragging her hand through her short reddish hair. “Right. Not Normandy. Understood.”


    She turned her gaze to the end of the table. Major General Max Jamison, head of Special Operations, was already waiting, hands folded on the table like a man bracing for a punch.


    “What about your people?”


    Jamison shook his head. “The Squadron is a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. And our air mobile battalions train for air assault, not wet-foot insertion. We don’t have the lift capacity. No doctrine, no kit.”


    A heavy silence settled over the room like a wet wool blanket. The only sounds were the soft hum of screens and the occasional tap of a stylus against a tablet.


    Kahu took a breath, slow and tight. “So if someone lands forces in the Solomons or Tonga, or tries to hold some atoll in our backyard… I don’t have a single unit I can send to take it back. Not one?”


    No one met her eyes. Not Robson, the Chief of Defence Force, sitting stone-faced. Not Fitzpatrick. Not Clarkson.


    She bit back a curse.


    And then, from the far end of the table, where he’d been quietly watching, Oliver Walker spoke up through the other half of the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.


    “If we can’t rely on American Marines to storm beaches for us anymore,” he said, swallowing audibly, calm and matter of fact, “why don’t we just make our own?”


    All heads turned. The silence was sharp. No one had expected him to speak — he rarely ever did in public, but certainly not that.


    Air Marshal Robson blinked. “You want to make… Marines?”


    Tania Grey, Chief of the Air Force, gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Out of who? Army castoffs? Navy deckhands with waterproof rifles?”


    Walker gave a small shrug, entirely unfazed. “Why not? Look—what do we actually need? Rapid deployment, we can do that, we have the aircraft. Amphibious capability, we have the ships, we can do that too. The ability to project force in grey-zone theatres. If we want to deny an enemy landing or take back a reef in our backyard, we need troops who can hit the sand running.”


    He glanced around the table. “That’s the only thing we don’t have. So let’s build it.”


    Clarkson leaned forward. “From scratch?”


    “Not entirely,” Walker said. “Like I said, we already have the bones. Light infantry, recon, the logistics tail. We have the ships—LHDs, LPDs. What we lack is doctrine. Training. Political backing.”


    He looked to Kahu. “Small, fast, lethal. A modern Pacific force. Built for this theatre.”


    She raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s going to scare Beijing?”


    Walker met her gaze evenly. “Probably not, no. But it’ll make them think twice. And more importantly—it gives us options. Right now, we have none.”


    He let the silence hang for a second.


    “There is precedent for this,” he added. “Look at the SAS. The Long Range Desert Group. Pulled together from regular units to do something no one else could. Mostly Kiwis, by the way.”


    “Doctrine?” Robson asked, sceptical.


    “It’s out there,” Walker said. “When I was at Massey, we studied the USMC field guide in Defence Studies. And we’ve got Marines in the region—British, American. I’m sure they’d consult with us. We could build a lot faster than you think.”


    Kahu looked at Defence Minister Kevin MacNielty, who was already flipping pages on a tablet, eyes narrowing. Then at Du Plessis, her Deputy and Minister for Defence Production and Innovation, who was quietly tapping notes into his phone.


    “I want a proposal,” Kahu said finally. “Doctrine, structure, budget envelope. Make it tight, make it real, and make it fast. This will be an Army - Navy collaboration, and I want Mr Walker at the head, he has my full confidence Gentleman and, in this instance, speaks with my voice.”


    She turned back to Walker.


    “If we’re going to do this... it has to work the first time.” She eyed him closely, and her face darkened. “Bring me a plan. I want to see something that walks, swims, and bites.”


    He nodded.


    ***


    Jakarta – Indonesia. August 25th, 2040 – 12:15 Local Time


    The siege had been raging for over a week, each day blurring into the next in a haze of smoke, screams, and destruction. The city of Jakarta, Indonesia''s sprawling capital, once a bustling metropolis of towering glass buildings, vibrant markets, and crowded streets, was now a hushed tomb of broken concrete and twisted metal. The sound of warplanes had become a constant hum in the air, and the sharp, violent cracks of artillery and the distant booms of bombs punctuated every moment of the day.


    By August 25th, the Chinese commanders, their patience fraying like the edges of a worn-out thread, had reached the breaking point. General Kiang Liu, standing atop a jagged hill just outside the city, gazed down at the skyline, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His military uniform, once pristine, was now smudged with the grime of endless days in the field. His eyes, cold and calculating, studied the city below him, a city that had long been a symbol of defiance. The stubborn resistance of the Indonesians had strained his forces to their limits. But the Politburo’s orders were absolute: crush this city, break its spirit, and leave nothing but ruin in your wake. This would not be a war of precision strikes or careful surgical operations; this would be a declaration of absolute power.


    At precisely 06:15, as the first light of dawn began to break over the city, General Liu gave the command. The words that slipped from his lips were curt, devoid of emotion, yet heavy with the weight of their consequence. "Open Fire," he ordered. The Dragon roared and unleashed its fiery breath, in the form of the artillery that had been silently positioned on the outskirts of the city for days. Like a dormant beast awoken early and angry, it came alive with terrifying fury.


    Rocket batteries hissed and screamed as they launched their payloads into the sky, the air vibrating with their violent ascent. Towed and self-propelled artillery units roared to life, their barrels shuddering with each deafening round they expelled. The earth shook as the first wave of destruction came crashing down on Jakarta’s northern districts. Explosions tore through the city with terrifying speed, collapsing buildings into rubble, sending plumes of dust and debris into the air. It was as if the very earth itself was being consumed by fire and steel. The relentless pounding of artillery did not stop for a single moment; shells rained down in waves, a ceaseless tide of destruction that swallowed everything in its path. There was no shelter from the storm.


    General Liu’s orders had been very clear: the artillery would continue until either the ammunition ran dry, or the barrels themselves were too overheated to fire. His words echoed in the minds of his officers: "No mercy. No pause. No survivors." The civilians in the city—those who had not already fled—were nothing more than collateral in this brutal message from Beijing. Jakarta, once a thriving city, was now reduced to a landscape of twisted ruins.


    Simultaneously, infantry and armored units had moved in to seal off all access points to the city. Military vehicles rumbled down the shattered streets, their engines growling like predators on the hunt. Tanks and armored personnel carriers parked at key intersections, their barrels aimed at any movement. Any attempt to flee was met with swift and unforgiving fire. The Chinese forces had one objective: total containment. No one would leave, not alive. The sound of machine guns echoed through the streets as the soldiers enforced that brutal order.


    For six hours, the artillery thundered, each round a proclamation of China''s power, each blast a step closer to ensuring that Jakarta would never again rise up against them. That no one would dare to challenge their rightful authority again.


    The streets became rivers of fire and smoke, the air thick with the stench of burning flesh and scorched earth. The city’s defences, though valiantly held, crumbled under the sheer weight of the bombardment. Buildings collapsed in on themselves, their skeletons reduced to twisted shards of concrete and steel. The skies, once clear and blue, were now darkened by a constant storm of ash and smoke. Even the sun struggled to break through the thick cloud of destruction.


    At noon, when the guns finally fell silent, a deathly quiet descended over the city. The devastation was so complete that even the birds dared not fly. The ground was littered with the remnants of the battle: charred vehicles, broken bodies, and the twisted remains of what had once been a thriving metropolis. Jakarta, Indonesia''s proud heart, was now nothing but a graveyard, a symbol of what awaited any who dared to defy the new order.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    General Kiang Liu stood at the top of the hill, his eyes scanning the ruined horizon. He had given everything to this mission—his resolve, his men, and his soul. The Politburo’s message had been sent, loud and clear. He had delivered on their demand for total devastation. The city, he thought, was nothing but rubble, its spirit shattered beyond repair. There could not possibly be anyone left alive.


    As he watched the smoke rise from the wreckage below, a single tear slipped from his eye. For the first time in his career he felt remorse overwhelm his sense of duty. He had been a soldier for over forty years, in that time he had done things that were difficult to stomach, but nothing like this. His was the tear of someone who had realized too late the price of victory. The city had fallen, but at what cost? He felt a hollow emptiness gnaw at him, the weight of his actions crushing him in ways that no battlefield ever could.


    He had woken that day as a soldier, and they had made him a murderer. They would hang him for this, even though they had ordered it. He thought of his wife and many children, the shame that a trial would bring to them. At least he could go out like a soldier. Slowly, almost mechanically, General Liu unbuckled his service pistol. He raised it to his temple, his hand trembling slightly, but his mind made up. He had given everything, and now there was nothing left. The world was quieter here, at the edge of this broken city, than it had been amidst the chaos of battle.


    With a sharp, decisive motion, he pulled the trigger.


    The world went still.


    Jakarta, now a scar on the landscape, lay silent beneath the fading light of the afternoon. The price of conquest had been paid in blood, but in the end, it was the conqueror who had been consumed.


    ***


    Politburo Standing Committee, Zhongnanhai Compound – Beijing. August 26th, 2040 – 08:00 LT


    The war table was bathed in red, the large screen television mounted on the wall, showing a map of Southeast Asia flickering with heat signatures, naval markers, and downed satellite icons. A single pulsing light blinked where Jakarta once stood.


    President Xiang Wei sat with the stoic gravity of a man shaping history. Around him, China’s top leadership watched the board like predators circling the wounded.


    “We’ve received confirmation,” said General Chen Jianhong, Chief of Defence Force. “Jakarta’s resistance has collapsed. It would appear that General Liu interpreted your orders quite literally Comrade President! The city lies in ruins, estimated casualties are at 100 percent.”


    President Xiang barely nodded. His eyes didn’t leave the map.


    “And the West?”


    Minister Zhang Rui, Foreign Affairs, answered coolly. “The CANZUK Alliance and the United States remain formally at war with us. However—” he tapped the glowing edge of the map— “they have yet to advance. Their ground forces remain in Papua New Guinea. Surveillance drones cross into Indonesian airspace, but no strike packages have been launched.”


    Admiral Liu Zhenhai grunted. “They’re testing us. Letting Indonesia bleed to see how far we’ll go.”


    “No, I don’t think so.” Liang Qiang, the Defence Minister, added, “Jakarta was a warning whether direct or indirect is irrelevant. The Indonesians declined allied assistance. Out of Pride, nationalism, a belief they could hold out on their own. They thought restraint would spare them. It did not.”


    President Xiang looked to his right, his voice even. “And General Liu?”


    A pause. General Ma Jun, head of the PLA Ground Forces, gave a terse nod. “He is dead Comrade President. Took his own life sometime after bombardment ceased. His staff found him in his field command post just before the final report came in.”


    A silence lingered.


    Then Xiang spoke — not with fury, but with something colder. “Then he chose the coward’s way out.”


    No one responded.


    “He was a tool,” Xiang continued. “And tools are discarded when their purpose is fulfilled. What matters is not his conscience… but that Jakarta burns.”


    “All those people…” Minister Wen Lian, Science & Tech, cleared her throat quietly. “For decades we have been developing precision weapons, and we go and do this barbarism anyway.”


    “Be mindful Minister Wen.” Xiang stated, the condescension dripping from every syllable. “This is how wars are fought. If you wish to win them.”


    The President turned to the Defence Minister. “What of their naval movements?”


    “Our satellite arrays confirm the Western coalition still has multiple carrier groups in the Timor Sea.” Liang replied. “Along with several in the Bismark and Philippine Sea. It appears as if they are gearing up for something.”


    The President did not look impressed with this answer. “And the Convoys?”


    “New Zealand is proving very adept at getting supplies and equipment through to Japanese and South Korean logistics hubs. We estimate three weeks before they are back to pre-war fighting strength.” Liang stated, reading from his notebook. “They appear to be particularly effective at anti-submarine operations, we have lost countless diesel submarines and several of our better nuclear vessels.”


    “And their losses?” The President demanded.


    “Minimal it would seem, to date, we have sunk three cargo ships and one of their smaller corvettes….”


    “Preposterous! How can that be so, your figures are wrong Liang!” The President interrupted. “Check your sources. I want the real numbers by this afternoon.”


    “We must dismantle their unity.” Director Sun Kai, MSS, interjected. “The media is not attacking the west as they should. We’ve begun targeting public discord — war fatigue, economic pressure, troop morale. We''re feeding curated footage of Indonesian military abuses and suggesting that Jakarta fell because of Western betrayal.”


    Zhang Rui frowned slightly. “That may backfire. The West is still holding the moral high ground…”


    “Then burn it from beneath,” Xiang snapped.


    He stood now, hands locked behind his back, his voice rising only slightly — more steel than fire.


    “They wait on the Papua border, calculating. They think they can contain us. That they hold escalation in their hands. But they forget who we are.”


    His gaze swept across the room.


    “This is not restraint. This is weakness masquerading as diplomacy. When they step forward — and they will — they’ll be stepping into a furnace.”


    He paused.


    “Jakarta was the first lesson. The second will come at a place of our choosing.” He looked once more at the blinking red dot over Jakarta. “Let the world remember what happens when they hesitate.”


    Around the table, nods. The war council was shifting into a new phase — less reactive, more predatory.


    And though General Liu lay cold in Jakarta’s ash, the dragon he unleashed was only just opening its jaws.


    ***


    Prime Minister’s Office – Wellington. August 30th, 2040 – 09:00 Local Time


    The morning sun was only just beginning to filter through the early morning clouds, and by extension, the blinds of Prime Minister Miriama Kahu’s office. The space, neat and functional, carried the faint hum of anticipation as the small but weighty group gathered around the large glass table. On her desk was that morning’s Dominion Post, the massacre of Jakarta had made front page news. Kahu was livid, but she didn’t show it. The news just spurred her on, making this meeting all the more important.


    Kahu, seated at the head of the table, surveyed the room with a quiet intensity. Oliver Walker sat beside her, a notebook in front of him, his posture confident but measured. On her left, Defence Minister Kevin MacNielty, sharp-eyed and occasionally flicking through reports on his tablet. On her right, Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick, General Willy Clarkson, and Major General Max Jamison, all wearing their respective expressions of professionalism mixed with some wariness at the monumental decision at hand. The idea of a new branch of the military was something they had never discussed—at least, not like this.


    “I trust you’re all ready to move forward with this,” Kahu said, her voice low but unwavering. She folded her hands before her, but her eyes remained on Walker.


    “I’m ready,” Walker replied. “But the success of this, Prime Minister, will depend on how we structure it from the beginning. A Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment isn’t just a new battalion; it’s a whole new branch. We’re talking about an entity with its own doctrine, training programs, and budget. We can’t just plug it into existing structures.”


    Kahu nodded, signalling for Walker to continue.


    Walker cleared his throat and set his notebook down. “The idea behind this regiment is simple—rapid deployment, amphibious capability, the ability to project force in the Pacific theatre. But it’s also about flexibility. We need to be able to operate anywhere—from a ship’s deck to a remote atoll, from a coastal assault to an island clearing operation. Right now, we don’t have the troops capable of that. We need a unit that’s versatile, lethal, and able to work in concert with our Navy, Army, and Special Operations.”


    A brief pause, then he continued, glancing over the table to each man and woman present. “My proposal is that this regiment fall directly under Navy command, as a separate but complementary branch. It’ll need its own budget—largely for training, specialized equipment, and the ships that will carry it. But we’ll leverage the Navy’s existing infrastructure for deployment and logistics.”


    Fitzpatrick shifted in his seat, his gaze fixed on Walker. “You’re suggesting we create a new command structure for this regiment?”


    Walker met his gaze. “Yes. The Marines will need dedicated command, officers trained specifically for amphibious operations, and integration with the existing Navy fleet. We’ve got the ships—the LHDs, the LPDs, and the Bay-class landing ships. What we don’t have are troops trained to use them. We’re looking at a cross-functional force, built around light infantry, amphibious assault tactics, and specialist reconnaissance. They’ll need to be trained for rapid, irregular engagements—everything from underwater demolitions to fast-moving beachhead operations.”


    Clarkson spoke up, his voice steady and pragmatic. “I agree with the concept, but we have to talk about the logistics. The Army doesn’t have the capacity to fully integrate these Marines, especially given the need for new doctrine. The training, the equipment—it''s a big ask. We don’t have the amphibious vehicles or the ships that the American Marines use. We can’t just snap our fingers and make it happen.”


    Walker nodded, acknowledging Clarkson’s point. “I understand that. We’re not reinventing the wheel here. We’ll be adapting existing training programs, and we’ll work with our allies to bring in expertise—American, British, Australian. They’ve got the experience. We’ll also be working with our own Special Operations community, drawing from them where necessary. And as for the kit, that’s part of the plan. It’s not going to be cheap, but the cost of inaction is greater.”


    General Jamison, ever the quiet observer, finally spoke. “The other issue is the manpower. You’re talking about creating an entire new branch from scratch. The Army and Navy don’t have enough bodies to fill the roles you’re suggesting. It’s going to take time, and we’ll need to create new recruitment pipelines specifically for this regiment.”


    Walker turned toward Jamison. “That’s why we need to move quickly. We’re not talking about a decade-long process here. If we start with a small, elite core—perhaps starting with the best of our existing infantry and Special Operations units—we can build the rest up over time. They’ll need to go through amphibious training, advanced recon, and joint Navy operations, but with the right focus, it’ll be manageable.”


    MacNielty leaned forward, tapping his fingers lightly on the edge of his tablet. “All right, we’re talking about structure, doctrine, and training—but what about the budget? Do we have an estimate for what this will cost?”


    Walker gave a measured response. “I’ve spoken with the Ministry of Defence’s financial planners. The initial investment will be significant—likely upwards of 2 billion dollars over the next five years, with about a third of that going toward training infrastructure and specialized equipment. After that, we’ll see a gradual increase in funding to maintain operations and expansion.”


    Fitzpatrick raised an eyebrow. “And what about integration with the Navy? We’re already stretched thin with our current commitments. Will we be pulling resources from existing forces to make this work?”


    “Initially, yes,” Walker acknowledged. “But we’ll be selective. We’ll keep the impact on existing Navy operations to a minimum. The key here is long-term sustainability. The more we can grow the regiment organically, the less burden we’ll place on the Navy’s day-to-day operations.”


    Kahu was quiet for a moment, her gaze shifting across the table. She knew this proposal was a radical one, but if this war carried on much longer, they were going to need this force. If this worked, it could revolutionize New Zealand’s military capability in the Pacific—but the cost, both financially and politically, would be immense.


    Finally, she spoke. “I’m convinced. Let’s move forward. I want the proposal formalized. We’ll need a timeline, a clear structure, and a plan for integration into the Navy command. We’ll also need to make sure the political backing is solid.”


    She turned to Walker. “You have my full support on this, Oliver. Bring me something that walks, swims, and bites—and I expect it to be ready when we need it.”


    Walker nodded, his expression determined. “Understood, Prime Minister. We’ll make it happen.”


    The room was silent for a moment before MacNielty spoke again, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like we’re about to have a whole new set of boots on the ground… and in the surf.”


    Clarkson chuckled quietly, but his face remained serious. “Just what we needed, more jar heads.”


    Kahu stood up, a finality to her movements. “This meeting is over. Let’s get to work.”


    As the room emptied, Walker remained for a moment, staring out the window, thinking about the future—the challenge, the politics, and most importantly, the possibility that New Zealand might finally have the capability to project its power on its own terms.


    ***


    The Fall of Indonesia – November 2040


    It took weeks longer than anyone had anticipated, but by November, the Chinese were on the verge of securing all of Indonesia. The vast archipelagic nation, stretching across thousands of islands, had become a deadly battlefield where every narrow waterway, every densely forested shore, and every steep mountain pass had been the scene of savage, relentless combat.


    The Indonesians, a determined and resourceful people, fought tooth and nail to defend their homeland, using their small, agile vessels to strike at the massive Chinese fleets that surrounded them. In the tight confines of the islands, the Indonesians turned their nimble ships into predators, harrying the bulkier Chinese warships. Their air force having gone through years of modernisation, was equally as effective and vicious, but it too was small by comparison and was eventually swept aside.


    But despite the fierce resistance, there was no stopping the Dragon. The scale of the invasion was staggering. On the mainland, the Indonesians’ resolve had been galvanized by the atrocities committed in Jakarta, where the Chinese had slaughtered over eleven million civilians in the span of six hours, levelling the capital with an efficiency that defied comprehension. The brutality of the assault was a spectacle of war crimes, one that left the world gasping in horror. Cities were wiped off the map, entire families vaporized by artillery, and the air was thick with the charred remains of once-thriving neighbourhoods. The Chinese had shown no mercy, and the Indonesians, despite their best efforts, could only look on in despair as their people were crushed beneath the heels of the invaders.


    By the end of November, China’s forces had begun their push into Papua New Guinea, a desperate move to secure the last major obstacle between them and their ultimate prize: total domination of the Pacific. But it was here that the Chinese met their first significant resistance, and it was here that the tide began to turn.


    The Chinese had entered Indonesia with nearly a million men—an overwhelming force that included ten thousand tanks, armored vehicles, and a seemingly endless array of trucks and supply convoys. Yet, by the time they reached the dense jungles of Papua New Guinea, that number had dwindled to a mere fraction. Their ranks were depleted by weeks of brutal fighting, constant ambushes, and the harsh terrain that favoured neither the heavily mechanized nor the overstretched Chinese supply lines. What was once a formidable, unstoppable juggernaut had become a weary, fragmented force, straining to maintain its hold on the region.


    And that was when they ran into the Alliance.


    Operation Wattle-Koru—a joint Australian and New Zealand military effort, had been preparing for this moment. Under the command of the exceptionally skilled Australian tactician, Lieutenant General Lackie Patterson, the Alliance forces had been quietly bolstering their presence in the Pacific, readying themselves for the inevitable clash. No longer were the Chinese facing outdated, second-hand equipment or overstretched military units. The tables had turned.


    Now, the Chinese were about to meet the full might of a modern, well-coordinated military machine.


    The 1st Cavalry Division of the Australian Army, equipped with the latest M1-A2 Abrams tanks, were in the front lines, supported by their new Boxer  and RedBack Infantry Fighting Vehicles (IFVs)—sleek, deadly machines designed for rapid response and flexibility in the jungle. Alongside them were the New Zealand 2nd Cavalry Division, featuring the formidable K2-NZ Black Panther tanks and the versatile K21-NZ IFVs. These state-of-the-art vehicles had been developed for just such a conflict, capable of matching and even outclassing their Chinese counterparts in both firepower and manoeuvrability.


    To further cement their superiority, the Alliance forces brought their K9 self-propelled howitzers, M-109 Rocket batteries and massed HIMARs units, a combination of devastating long-range artillery and precise targeting systems that could turn the tide of a battle from miles away. The Chinese, who had relied on their overwhelming numbers and crude inexperienced tactics, now faced an enemy that could outgun, outmanoeuvre, and outthink them at every turn.


    For the first time in the campaign, the People’s Liberation Army could not advance. The dense jungles of Papua New Guinea became a deadly maze, where the slightest movement could trigger an ambush. The Chinese, still reeling from the losses they had sustained across the archipelago, found themselves caught in a stalemate. They pushed forward only to be met by unrelenting fire, with their tanks and vehicles torn apart by the combined weight of Australian and New Zealand artillery strikes, HIMARS rocket barrages, and precisely coordinated infantry ambushes.


    For the Chinese infantry, the battle was even more hellish. Papua New Guinea’s spec-ops units, renowned for their guerrilla tactics, melded with the jungle, striking swiftly and silently, then disappearing before the enemy could retaliate. But it was the recent arrival of the 8th Royal New Zealand “Māori” Light Infantry Regiment that truly struck fear into the heart of the Chinese. Specialists in jungle warfare, the “Māori” Light Infantry used the land to their advantage with a mastery that few could match. They knew the jungle well, they were the New Zealand equivalent to the British Ghurka—and with a warrior spirit honed by generations of struggle, they fought with an intensity that shook even the hardened Chinese soldiers.


    The Chinese were now trapped. Their tanks, which had once surged across the islands like unstoppable behemoths, now found themselves bogged down in the mud of the jungle. Their supply lines were stretched to breaking point, and their soldiers, once brimming with arrogance and certainty, were now thin, exhausted, and demoralized. The jungle had become a tomb for the invaders, with every attempt to advance met with death from unseen forces.


    The battle became a grinding war of attrition, with neither side able to gain the upper hand. The Chinese continued to push, but every advance was countered with fierce resistance. The pattern held for several months: the Chinese forces would try to move forward, but they were always met with a vicious barrage of 155mm artillery shells, HIMARS rockets, and ambushes by Western tank units that appeared out of the jungle, struck with deadly precision, and then melted back into the dense undergrowth before the Chinese could respond.


    Meanwhile, the Alliance prepared for what they knew was the inevitable counteroffensive. But for the moment, the holding pattern persisted. The Chinese had been stopped, but the war was far from over. Both sides knew that the battle for the Pacific was only just beginning.