Vulture’s Row, HMNZS Tangaroa – The Bismarck Sea. September 5th, 2040 – 08:35 LT


    The sky was a pale, cloudless blue — the kind of clarity that made things feel calm even when they weren’t. Down on the flight deck, the first of the new Sea Eagles had just slammed down with a squeal of tyres and the growl of its engines at full power, its frame hugging the angled deck before catching the arrestor wire with a solid, unforgiving jolt.


    Vice Admiral Malachi Mason flinched slightly, not from fear, but sheer kinetic respect.


    Along Vulture’s Row, the gallery that overlooked the carrier’s sprawling flight deck, five silhouettes stood shoulder to shoulder — their eyes fixed on the performance unfolding below.


    Mason let out a low whistle, folding his arms against the salt-laced wind. “Jesus Christ, Danny… you weren’t kidding.”


    Admiral Danny Fitzpatrick, the chief of the Royal New Zealand Navy, smirked — eyes still locked on the deck below. He’d flown out to the ship for this very purpose. “Told you, Mal. She lives up to her name in the sky, but lands like a hammer.”


    On the bow, a pair of F-35Cs were taxiing into position. The Melbourne-class aircraft carriers, like Tangaroa, followed similar design principles to their American counterparts. The F-15 landings on the angled deck didn’t even slow the tempo, as the two sleek stealth fighters launched off the forward catapults.


    Beside Mason, Captain Cayden MacNiell gave a soft chuckle. “Looks like the deck crew just aged a decade watching that big bastard come in.”


    Fitzpatrick didn’t deny it. “We ran sims for months. The boys and girls in Hamilton threw everything — including the fucking kitchen sink — at her… it came through everything unscathed. The F-15EX/N Sea Eagle is a beast — 20% heavier than the Americans’ Hornets, two metres wider. But with the upgraded stabilisers, she settles right where she’s told.”


    Commander Danny O’Doyle, Tangaroa’s air operations officer, kept quiet — too busy recalculating deck space in his head. How much room these would take up in the hangar bays. The fuel requirements. The weapon loadouts. The choreography of their positioning on the deck.


    Captain Todd Rossovich said nothing at first either. He was watching the plane now taxi to the edge of the deck, wings folding up like the limbs of some futuristic predator, its fuselage still shimmering from heat. He rubbed a thumb along his jaw, then finally muttered, “That thing looks pissed off even when it’s parked.”


    Another bird screamed in overhead. A controlled dive, angle perfect, the kind of approach that showed off both pilot and airframe. The roar echoed across the hull as it hit the deck — a controlled moment of violence that shuddered through the steel bones of Tangaroa. The arrestor wire held fast. The tailhook bounced once, then disengaged. Smooth. Clean.


    The Sea Eagles were here.


    “You wanted a truck.” Fitzpatrick stated, turning and speaking directly to Mason, the pride evident in his voice, “well there it is! Full digital integration, networked comms, pretty much the same combat interface as the F-35.”


    Malachi nodded, half to himself. He was still watching the flight crew swarming the first aircraft — the way the deck teams moved with purpose, rhythm, discipline. A machine of their own.


    “They’ll need every ounce of it,” he said quietly. “The Chinese aren’t slowing down.”


    “No, sir,” Rossovich interjected, his voice steady. “But neither are we.”


    For a moment, the group fell silent. Another jet streaked overhead, a blur of heat and speed, its pilot dropping into the groove like they’d been born for it.


    Below them, on the deck of one of the most powerful ships the Royal New Zealand Navy had ever put to sea, the future of the Pacific air war was landing — one bird at a time.


    And on Vulture’s Row, the men who would fly them, command them, and risk everything on their success… watched history begin to take shape.


    ***


    Admiral’s Mess, HMNZS Tangaroa – The Bismarck Sea. September 5th, 2040 – 09:35 LT


    The leather creaked as they sat, the echo of afterburners still faint in their ears. The two most senior men in the Royal New Zealand Navy were still mulling over the implications of the new F-15EX/N they''d watched from Vulture’s Row. They’d tucked themselves into the corner of the Admiral’s Mess — a comfortable, intimate space styled like an old-time smoking room. Button-tucked leather armchairs in rich burgundy, a tall standing lamp with a frosted, green-tinted shade, and a polished Rimu coffee table anchored the room in quiet, stately calm.


    On the table sat a pot of coffee and a plate of chocolate-covered gingernut biscuits. Henare had anticipated the moment perfectly. Mason spotted the steward lingering at the kitchen entrance and gave a small, appreciative nod. The man smiled with pride before disappearing.


    “So what do you think?” Fitzpatrick asked, stirring milk — and far too much sugar for Mason’s liking — into his coffee.


    “I’d have to fly it to really know,” Mason replied, dropping two sweeteners into his own mug and picking up a biscuit to dunk. “But for now? I think you’ve nailed it.”


    “It’s been a couple of weeks since we talked,” Fitzpatrick said, reaching for a biscuit of his own. “I’ve read your reports — and your squadron commanders’. But I’d like to hear it straight. Has your opinion on the F-35 changed?”


    Mason shook his head slightly. “My opinion never changed. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” He took a moment, weighing his next words. “I do believe the F-35 is a great aircraft. And stealth absolutely has its place.”


    Fitzpatrick studied him. They’d served together for years — he could tell Mason was winding up to something.


    “What is it, Mal? This is starting to feel like a Woozle effect to me,” he said, with just a hint of frustration. “Just spit it out.”


    Mason made a show of reaching for another biscuit, still gathering his thoughts.


    “I’m not trying to be a dick here, Danny— I’m really not,” he said finally. “But here’s the thing. The world’s evolved, no question. But some old truths still hold. All our tech, all our advancements… and yet, both of our engagements with the Chinese carrier groups played out almost word-for-word like the Americans versus the Japanese in World War Two.”


    He let that hang. Watched as Fitzpatrick dunked a gingernut into his coffee.


    Mason counted the seconds. Knew it was too long.


    The coffee-laden biscuit collapsed and splattered across Fitzpatrick’s uniform. Mason was already sliding over the tissue box.


    “What I’m saying,” he continued, watching Fitzpatrick dab at the mess, “is that sometimes, progress for progress’ sake isn’t the answer. Sometimes, going old school is the better play. And an aircraft like this new F-15? That’s the kind of machine that just gets the job done.”


    Fitzpatrick looked up, a hint of embarrassment on his face — and a growing stain on his shirt. In true steward fashion, Chief Petty Officer James Henare was already at his side with a fresh shirt in hand. Mason shot him another appreciative nod. The man was a magician — and Mason wouldn’t go anywhere without him.


    “Don’t get me wrong, Danny. Stealth gets you in the door,” Mason said. “But sometimes? You need something that kicks it down.”


    Fitzpatrick looked at the clean shirt, then back at Mason.


    “So you’re saying we need to treat it like rugby — send the fast-moving winger in first, and when they cut through the line, we break it open with the forwards? Stealth first… then the sledgehammer.”


    “Something like that.” Mason smiled. “And with the Growlers backing us up like the loose forwards, that’s the full package.”


    Fitzpatrick leaned back, nodding thoughtfully. "I get where you''re coming from. But you know, we might not need to rely on three separate platforms for that. I’ve been looking at some studies the engineers have been doing at the Hamilton plant, to do with the F-15EX’s EPAWSS system.”


    “Remind me what that is?” Mason queried.


    “Eagle Passive Active Warning Survivability System. The tech that’s already embedded in the Eagles could make for a damn fine Growler replacement."


    Mason paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. "You mean... like turning the F-15EX/N into a full-blown Electronic Warfare platform?"


    Fitzpatrick shrugged, eyes narrowing as he spoke. “Not saying it’s a done deal yet, but it’s a promising possibility. The EPAWSS system, as it stands, is already capable of a lot of what the Growler does — minus a few tweaks. The AI, the jamming capabilities, all of it. It’s already built to detect and counter threats… and it learns Mal, damn fast! It’s just a matter of reprogramming and expanding it to handle offensive jamming.”


    Mason raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying... we could use the same platform for air superiority and electronic warfare?”


    “Exactly,” Fitzpatrick replied, his tone low, conspiratorial. “And think about the cost savings. We wouldn''t need to maintain an entirely separate fleet of Growlers or worry about different support systems. Keep the parts commonality across the board. Easier maintenance, fewer headaches.”


    Mason leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with the idea. "I see where you''re going with this. Keep the same chassis, just upgrade the tech, swap a few pods, and bam — more flexible capabilities. You’d have an F-15EX/N doing double duty."


    Fitzpatrick smiled, clearly pleased with Mason’s enthusiasm. “Exactly. It’s not a done deal yet, but we’re looking at some good options. Could even mean faster response times. Hell, if we play this right, it could make us damn near untouchable in the skies."


    Mason took a slow sip of his coffee, then set it down with a quiet clink. "Jesus Danny, this is the gift that just keeps on giving! If we can pull that off... it’ll give us an edge they won’t see coming."


    ***


    RAAF Tindal, Northern Territory – September 6th, 2040, 06:45 Local


    The heat was already rising off the tarmac, an oppressive breath of the Northern Territory air, thick with dust and the scent of fuel. The first light of dawn painted the horizon in shades of pink and orange, casting long, jagged shadows across the sprawling airbase. They had been running at full tilt for weeks, a constant hum of activity as Kiwi, Aussie, and American crews worked side by side, their faces etched with exhaustion but their movements steady and precise. The tension in the air was palpable; with the fall of Indonesia and the devastation of Jakarta, everyone knew what they were up against now.


    Fuel trucks rumbled between hardened shelters, their engines sputtering as they refuelled the planes that soon would take to the skies once more. Fighters, bombers, patrol aircraft, everything flew with purpose. Ground crews, their fatigues stained with sweat and grime, moved like shadows amongst them, backlit by the rising sun, organizing supplies, checking systems, and preparing for whatever came next.


    Squadron Leader Matt Collins stood with his flight line crew, his gaze fixed on the eastern sky, where the first rays of sunlight began to streak across the horizon. Rumours had been swirling for days — hushed conversations around the mess hall, quick glances exchanged between pilots and techs. But now, the controllers had confirmed it: the Royal Air Force were coming. Not just whispers of diplomatic support or a token detachment, but three full squadrons. The thought sent a wave of relief through Collins’ chest, mingled with a pinch of disbelief. The Old Commonwealth was back.


    He could feel the vibrations in the ground before he heard it: the low, almost imperceptible hum of jet engines. A distant thunder rolling in from beyond the horizon. His pulse quickened. The formation emerged through the dawn light, slicing through the sky in perfect arrowhead formation. The sunlight caught on the Typhoons’ grey fuselages, making the aircraft shimmer like silver streaks against the soft pink of the morning. It was a sight both familiar and exhilarating, the kind that could stir the blood of anyone who knew the weight of history.


    The roar of the engines grew louder as the formation closed in, the planes flashing overhead in a breathtaking display of speed and precision. Collins'' eyes tracked their movements as they banked hard to the left, the first two peeling off into pairs while the rest continued their approach. The sun gleamed off their surfaces, a sharp contrast to the dull, dusty air of the Northern Territory. The pilots of the Typhoons had the precision of men and women accustomed to combat, their movements flawless, rehearsed — as if they had been doing this for years, no matter how far away they had been.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    One by one, the Typhoons touched down, their tyres screeching against the sun-baked runway as the wheels bit into the tarmac. The sound was sharp, almost jarring, and for a moment, the ground seemed to vibrate with the weight of the incoming reinforcement. Their tails still bore the distinctive Union Jack flashes, the RAF roundel emblazoned on their sides — a sight that had not graced these skies for decades. A sight that meant something. That meant hope.


    Their journey to the sun-baked expanses of RAAF Tindal had been anything but straightforward. The Royal Air Force had embarked on a gruelling multi-leg flight from their bases in the United Kingdom, refuelling and regrouping at strategic points across the globe. Stops in Cyprus, the United Arab Emirates, and Diego Garcia had been meticulously planned to ensure that both pilots and aircraft could endure the long haul. Each segment of the trip was a testament to logistical precision and the endurance of the crews.


    As they crossed vast stretches of ocean and desert, the Typhoons and their support fleet faced numerous challenges — from turbulent weather to the ever-present threat of mechanical failure. Yet, the determination of the RAF crews shone through. They battled fatigue and navigational hazards, their eyes set firmly on the horizon, knowing that their arrival in Australia would signify more than just another mission; it was a beacon of solidarity and strength.


    Before the first jet had even come to a full stop, RAF ground crews were already waiting, rolling straight off the transports that had flown in overnight. Men and women in khaki coveralls moved quickly, efficiently, already pulling up next to the aircraft to begin the process of unloading and rearming. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement. Collins had always admired the British Air Force’s ability to get things done with such methodical precision. They had earned their reputation long ago, and today, that reputation was paying off.


    Collins walked over to the last Typhoon, it’s canopy just cracking open. You could see the visible discomfort when the tropical heat hit the air conditioned pilot, but he made no complaints. Just pulled his helmet off, hair slicked flat and looked down at the Australian.


    “All right Mate?” He asked, Collins could see the man’s rank was the same as his, so forgave the informality. Besides, formal was for official dinners, not the sun baked tarmac of a warfooting air base.


    The RAF pilot was a little shaky as he began his climb down and Collins reached out to steady him.


    “Thanks mate.”


    “No worries. Names Collins. That’s my squadron over there.” He pointed to the line of dangerous looking F-15EX Strike Eagles.


    “Nice one, I’m Hamilton, the boys call me Ham, and this is my squadron.” Ham stated, taking the proffered hand.


    The following day, the scene played out again, only this time, it was the Canadians — CF-188 Hornets, their dark grey camo and sleek fuselages cutting through the air like wolves in a pack. The Hornets roared in from the distance, their turbofans growling with intensity, the sound growing louder by the second. Collins watched with keen interest as the fighters sliced through the sky, their speed and aggression undeniable.


    Their journey to Tindal was just as challenging as it was significant, and it demanded the utmost resilience from the Canadian pilots and their support crews. The CF-188 Hornets had embarked on a trans-Pacific flight from their home bases in Canada, navigating through meticulously planned refuelling stops, and overcoming considerably more daunting obstacles, primarily the vastness of the Pacific Ocean.


    The first leg of their journey saw them flying over the Canadian Rockies, refuelling in Hawaii—a brief respite before continuing their trek across the vast Pacific. The pilots faced turbulent weather, navigational hazards, and the ever-looming threat of mechanical issues. Their determination, however, remained unshaken as they pressed on, a testament to their unyielding commitment to the mission at hand.


    The next critical stop was at Wake Island, since the loss of Guam, a rapidly rebuilt strategic point and new American stronghold in the Pacific, that offered them another chance to regroup and refuel. Here, the crews took a momentary breath, their eyes scanning the horizon, knowing that their final destination was drawing nearer with each passing hour. From Wake Island, they continued to the Solomans, where the logistics were handled with precision and the aircraft were checked, rearmed, and readied for the final push.


    As they crossed into Australian airspace, the pilots felt a renewed vigour, knowing that their arrival would mark a significant reinforcement for the beleaguered forces already stationed at RAAF Tindal. Their task ahead was mighty, to face down the numbers of the Chinese was almost overwhelming, but they were prepared for it. They faced that possibility filled with the same endurance and tenacity as they had faced their journey to get here. Their aircraft had brought them to the edge of the fight, and they were prepared to join their Commonwealth brethren in the struggle ahead.


    The Hornets landed with a heavy thud, their wheels slamming against the runway as they touched down, the jet wash kicking up a cloud of dust behind them. They were loaded with fuel tanks and live ordnance — fighters that had crossed half the world to reach this remote desert base. They were here to fight, and there was no mistaking that fact.


    Collins let out a low whistle, his eyes still tracking the planes as they rolled to a stop. He had heard the news — the Canadian pilots had barely slept during the long flight from the other side of the Pacific, but it didn’t show. They were ready, and they were here.


    "Bloody hell," Hamilton muttered behind him, voice raised. "Hide your wallets and your girlfriends boys. The Old Commonwealth is back."


    Collins couldn’t help but smile at that. Hamilton’s words were simple, but he couldn’t deny the truth of them. They carried a weight, a significance that he couldn’t quite explain, but certainly felt.. It had been too long. Too many years of waiting, of hoping, of facing an enemy too large to overcome on their own. Everyone had had ground troops deployed in the area, but it was their job to keep the ground pounders safe, and after Jakarta, Collins was beginning to think that task would insurmountable. But now… now, maybe they had a fighting chance after all.


    It had been quite some time since a Hornet had landed at Tindal. But you wouldn’t know it with the twin engine fighter glided so easily into a landing, the jet exhaust immediately kicking up clouds of the rusty red dust that always seemed to settle on the runway. It swirled in concentric circles behind the jet, it a beautiful tableau of twisting menace held together longer than it should, by the tropical humidity.


    He stepped forward as the first Canadian Hornet came to a full stop, watching the pilots climb out of their cockpits, their faces tense but resolute. Behind them, the ground crew worked quickly to secure the aircraft, loading fresh munitions, refuelling, and getting the fighters ready for their next mission. Collins could feel the surge of camaraderie that had always been a part of the Commonwealth spirit — no matter how distant they had all become, when the time came, they had always been able to come together.


    As the Canadians finished landing and their planes taxied to their positions, the sound of their engines still reverberating in the air, Collins felt something stir deep within him — something that had been buried for far too long. It was the feeling of unity, of brothers and sisters in arms, of a force that could not be beaten. The Old Commonwealth was back, and for the first time in weeks, Collins allowed himself to believe that victory, however distant, might be within their reach.


    "Fuck me!" Someone else muttered, this time with more conviction.


    Collins gave a small nod, his expression hardening. Canadian Hornets, Kiwi Strike Eagles, Australian Lightenings, and British Typhoons were lined up across the flight line, a true multinational force and they were all here for the same purpose.


    There was no turning back now.


    ***


    <u>War Room, The Beehive – Wellington. September 7th, 2040. 19.40LT</u>


    In the small office off the side of the war room, it was a little quieter, a little more peaceful—away from the loud voices and the hum of monitors. It was comfortable, and she often came in here to clear her head. On the vid screen in front of her were the faces of the three most influential men in her life right now: John Mitchell, Richard Winslow, and Thomas Bouchard.


    “…the RAF’s arrival at Tindal was a surprise, Richard,” Mitchell had just finished saying.


    Miriama sat back, pulling herself from the quiet moment. There was work to be done.


    “Yes, well, it took some doing. I’ve been trying to get you more aircraft for weeks, but Parliament has been stalling,” Winslow replied. “There are some who are still against this alliance. They say we should be keeping them here for home defence.”


    Miriama watched as John''s eyes visibly rolled, the scorn also clear on Thomas’s face.


    “Jesus Christ, Richard! What do the Chinese have to do to make those clowns sit up and take notice?” Mitchell spat. “We’re on the brink out here! After Jakarta, it’s clear there’s no reasoning with them.”


    Miriama looked to her friend. She could feel the weight he was under, the stress. His burden was heavy—New Zealand might be punching above its weight, but it was doing it from Australia’s shoulders. Their relationship had always been this way: Australia and New Zealand, a pair. But there was only so much more she could do for him.


    “You don’t have to tell me. I’m doing everything I can. If it wasn’t for the King’s impassioned speech in Parliament a couple of weeks ago, I doubt we’d have been able to send even one squadron, let alone three.”


    “Let’s also not forget the contributions of Canada here. Your planes are also very welcome, Thomas,” Miriama said, with a nod of appreciation to the Canadian. He smiled back in gratitude.


    “However,” she continued, “this brings into stark contrast something we’ve been sorely lacking—a unified command structure.”


    A flicker from one of the monitors in the next room caught her eye. Tindal again. A line of fighters on a sunburnt runway. It still felt surreal—Canadian, Australian, Kiwi and British pilots all flying combat missions from Australian soil, under a joint command. Not long ago, such a thing would''ve seemed like fantasy. Now, it was the last line of defence for half the world.


    “What we need is a clear chain of command. And it can’t be us. As a country, we’ve come a very long way in a comparatively short time,” she began. “But we lack the experience—especially in air combat. I suggest one of your commanders lead this force. We can make it rotational, just for fairness.”


    Miriama leaned forward slightly, folding her hands in front of her. The weight of the past months bore down on her shoulders—but she wasn’t the only one. Distance, it seemed, was no shield from the burden they shared. She looked at each man in turn, her voice calm, even.


    “One of ours is already in command of all forces at sea, and by all accounts, Admiral Mason is doing a great job. It would be unreasonable for us to expect to lead another front. John, you have General Patterson leading the Wattle-Koru front in New Guinea. That basically makes him the ad hoc ground forces commander.”


    Mitchell gave a weary nod. “Patterson’s a bastard, but he gets results. He’s kept the Chinese at bay for over a month now—with barely a quarter of their numbers.”


    Miriama acknowledged that with the faintest tilt of her head. “Exactly. Which leaves the air contingent. I suggest either a Canadian or a Brit take lead. What do you gentlemen think?”


    There was a beat of silence as the leaders considered her words.


    Winslow spoke first, his voice measured. “Our RAF group commander is Air Vice Marshal Ellsworth. He’s competent, pragmatic, and experienced with joint ops. But he''s... old-school. He’ll want structure. Proper chains of command.”


    “That’s not a bad thing,” Bouchard replied thoughtfully. “We need someone who can keep the different doctrines from falling into chaos. Our squadrons will follow orders, but they’ve never worked this closely with the Australians—or the New Zealanders, for that matter. It’ll be a cultural mess if we don’t get it right.”


    Mitchell snorted. “Cultural mess is what we’ve been living in since March. I’d settle for ‘functional dysfunction’ at this point.”


    They chuckled—briefly, dryly. Even humour had become tactical in this war.


    Miriama turned to Bouchard. “Who’s your lead air officer?”


    “Air Commodore Lemieux,” Bouchard answered. “He’s young. Brilliant, but young. And he’s seen action over Japan. Led the rescue ops out of the Aleutians. He’s got credibility with the men on the ground. Might be worth backing him—if Ellsworth is too... aristocratic.”


    “Hmm,” Winslow muttered. “Ellsworth might balk at taking orders from a Canadian half his age.”


    “Then how about a compromise?” Mitchell interjected. “Frame it as support. Ellsworth keeps his status—Group Commander. Taskings, rotations, regional oversight. Lemieux becomes his deputy, operational lead. That way we maintain the hierarchy, but the tempo stays sharp.”


    Miriama nodded. “I like it. It gets us moving without stepping on egos.”


    Bouchard gave a half-smile. “I’ll brief Lemieux personally. He’ll be on board.”


    “I’ll manage Ellsworth,” Winslow added. “God help me.”


    “Then we’re agreed,” Miriama said, leaning back in her chair. This conversation had gone better than she had hoped. “Lemieux leads day-to-day. Ellsworth oversees the structure. Patterson commands the front. Mason holds the sea.”


    The three men nodded slowly, and Miriama pushed forward. “Let’s move on then, we have some clear structures in place, or close to it. But those aren’t the only domains we need to think about.”


    She tapped a finger against the polished surface of the desk in thought


    “We’ve seen how effective the Chinese have been in using asymmetric tactics. Their pre-assault cyberattacks and jamming, the deepfake broadcasts—none of that is traditional battlefield stuff, but it’s shaping the war all the same.”


    Thomas leaned forward slightly. “You’re talking about cyber and information warfare?”


    “Exactly,” Miriama replied. “We need a unified Cyber Command under joint control. Not just defence—we need offensive capability. Something more agile than what our national structures allow. A combined cell with direct links to our intel feeds and theatre ops.”


    “I’ll put forward Brigadier-General Marková,” Bouchard said. “She headed our offensive cyber wing during the Soloman defence. She’s ruthless—but in the right way.”


    “The UK has expertise there too,” Winslow added. “We can second staff from GCHQ and MI5. But it needs to be lean. Not a bureaucracy, more a strike team.”


    “Done,” Miriama said. “We’ll set it up under temporary authority, review after sixty days. I suggest either the facility at Pine Gap or Irirangi, both are already set up for it.”


    “Irirangi, it’s more out of the way.” Mitchell stated emphatically, leaning back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “If we’re carving up joint commands, we can’t ignore special operations though. The work our teams did in the Solomans secured our victory there. The PNG boys in New Guinea, your Māori Regiment Miri. Those forces are what is keeping us one step ahead in the islands.”


    “Agreed,” Miriama said. “We need a Joint Special Operations Command—interoperable units, shared assets, priority tasking through strategic command.”


    “Australia can lead that,” Mitchell said flatly. “Major General Gillespie has already been coordinating things on the ground. He’s embedded forward and knows the terrain better than anyone.”


    “Fine by me,” Winslow said. “We’ll give him full cooperation from our SRR and SBS detachments. Our teams are used to working with the Aussies.”


    “Canada too,” Bouchard added. “Our JTF2 and CSOR operators are already in flight, they should land soon.”


    “Good,” Miriama said. “We’ll formalise Gillespie’s appointment and give him a multilateral tasking authority.”


    She paused, the tension in the room growing more focused than heavy. There was still one more domain.


    “Intelligence,” she said. “We’ve got inputs coming from all over—SIGINT, HUMINT, satellites, battlefield recon, even civil feeds. It’s chaos. We need a Joint Strategic Intelligence Centre—something fast and fused. It can’t be filtered through five chains of command.”


    “New Zealand can host it,” Bouchard offered. “You’re neutral enough to keep it clean, and your SIS already coordinates well with the Five Eyes.”


    Miriama allowed a small smile. “That’s generous, Thomas. I think Sinclair will be pleased.”


    “Yes, I agree, give it to Sinclair,” Mitchell said. “So long as his analysts feed the ops teams what they need without lag, I don’t care where the building is.”


    “We’ll set it up in Pipitea Street,” Miriama said. “But I want a full multi-national team—liaison officers from each nation, real-time feeds from every command. We can’t win this war blind.”


    Winslow exhaled, sitting back in his chair. “Well... We should have done this months ago, now it’s really starting to look like a good old fashioned war, isn’t it?”


    “Good,” Mitchell grunted. “Because it is one.”