Private ISI Compound, Rawalakot - Azad Kashmir. August 10th, 2040. 01:27 LT
The lamps burned low in the marble-panelled drawing room, their glow casting long shadows across the faces of the two diplomats seated at the table. Outside, the Poonch River whispered in the dark.
Ayesha Khan, Pakistan’s Foreign Minister, was not in the habit of entertaining enemies or friends after midnight. But tonight was different. Tonight, history shifted course.
Born in Lahore to a politically influential family, Ayesha was the daughter of Senator Maqsood Khan, a respected centrist who navigated the treacherous currents of Pakistan’s civil-military divide. Her mother, Dr. Samina Waheed, was a trailblazing scholar of Islamic jurisprudence and among the first women to serve on the Council of Islamic Ideology. Religious, respected, quietly reformist
Ayesha studied international law at Oxford, followed by a stint at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service, where she caught the eye of Pakistan’s diplomatic corps with her sharp mind and unshakable poise. She returned home, fluent in three languages, armed with Western education but rooted in Pakistani pragmatism.
Her early diplomatic postings included Deputy Ambassador to the UN, chief negotiator for revisions to the South Asian Water Treaty, and Pakistan’s envoy to the African Union—where she secured crucial mining and energy deals.
What set Ayesha apart wasn’t just competence—it was her ability to speak with authority in a male-dominated space without ever alienating the establishment. She wore a traditional hijab in state meetings, quoted both Iqbal and Clausewitz, and earned the generals’ respect during a near-crisis with India in 2035.
Across from her for this particular meeting sat Zhang Rui, China’s Foreign Minister. He was flanked by a silent Chinese PLA general and a deputy from the Central Military Commission, Zhang placed a hardbound black folder on the table.
“This is not a proposal,” he said, softly, almost apologetically. “It is a timeline.”
She picked it up and started to flick through the pages, inside was target grids, carrier air wing loadouts, missile trajectories and ground force movement overlays along both the Ladakh and Jammu sectors. At the centre of it all: a flashpoint called ‘Operation Iron Requiem.’
“Wars are no longer declared, Minister… They are curated,” Zhang said. “We will strike first, an aircraft from our carrier battle group in the Bay of Bengal will instigate an incident, this will be closely followed by a saturation missile attack and aerial incursions from Tibet and Yunnan. The first salvos will hit radar stations, airbases, and strategic logistics hubs in eastern India.”
He leaned forward and tapped a section marked ‘Phase Two: Ground Engagement.’
“Forty-eight hours later, your forces will move. Armour across the Line Of Control, supported by rapid infantry in the Shakargarh Bulge and Sialkot sector. Simultaneously, we deploy ground forces through the Lipulekh corridor to tie down Indian mountain divisions.”
Khan’s eyes narrowed. Though she wasn’t military, she understood history and the basics. She also understood the implications of what he was proposing.
“And you expect us to tie up the northern front while you hit the east? That’s not partnership, Minister Zhang. That’s strategic misdirection. This is not what we signed up for!”
Zhang’s tone cooled.
“That, my dear, is irrelevant. Your predecessor knew exactly what he was getting into when he agreed to our arrangement. This is the coordination your government promised.” He replied, the gentleness gone from his voice. “We are shouldering the greater strategic risk of initiating a war against a nuclear-capable nation here. You job is just to reinforce the illusion that India is overexposed, overconfident.”
He sat back, folding his hands.
“The Alliance is tied down in the Pacific, the Americans are stretched to breaking point with commitments in the Middle east and the Pacific. Europe is watching the Gulf. This is your moment, Minister.”
Khan glanced at the final page. Covert funding lines, under the guise of infrastructure relief—$14 billion in hard currency. Disguised. Quiet. Enough to pay off Pakistan’s interest arrears and rearm its armored corps.
She sighed. “And Delhi?”
Zhang’s eyes gleamed. “They will wake up on fire.”
She lingered a moment too long on the final page. Not the missile grids—the funding ledger. The price of loyalty, calculated to the decimal. Khan felt the weight of a thousand graves pressing behind her eyes. History did not forgive accomplices. It swallowed them whole. Her stomach turned, though her face remained still.
***
Prime Minister’s Secure Bunker, Islamabad, August 10th, 2040. 09:00 LT
The heavy doors of the war room sealed behind them with a hiss of hydraulic locks. Inside, the air was crisp, with that overly recycled clean sterile taste, mixed with strong smelling tea and the sweat of men under stress. The full cabinet sat in silence while Ayesha Khan walked to the table and laid the black folder in front of her seat.
The mood was brittle. Calculating. Dangerous. It always was in a meeting of this nature, when the civilian and the military leadership came together. This was a den of vipers, some she had charmed, others she had not. All would throw her to the pit if they stopped finding her useful.
“I have just had a meeting with the Chinese Foreign Minister. He has outlined a plan, and we are to follow it.” She pushed copies to all present and they began to peruse the contents while she continued. “They will strike within a week. One of their Carrier groups will instigate an attack. Hypersonic and cruise missile barrages will commence shortly afterward, followed by saturation strikes on Indian infrastructure. Our part in this, is we mobilize from the north, punching through the LOC. Special forces strike key infrastructure.”
She looked drained. “They call it a joint operation. But let’s be honest—it’s their war. We’re just the second hammer.”
Prime Minister Asad Zaman sat quietly for a moment. He looked to each man in the room, then finally back to Ayesha. “Your thoughts?” He asked.
“On the surface this looks like it will get us what we want but let us be very clear here. This is not our war, we are just puppets in this. If we stay out of it, if we decline and stay neutral, we have options…”
“We lost that argument when we took their money Ayesha, now we have to pay our penance.”
Khan’s jaw tensed, a flash of something unspoken behind her eyes. Zaman noticed, his own eyes conveying a sense of apologetic sadness, bordering on hopelessness.
“We have already accepted their support packages.” Defence Minister General Iqbal Farooq Interjected. “Anti-radiation missiles. Combat drones. EW jammers. The 11th Armored is being refitted as we speak. This isn’t a future proposition. It’s already begun.”
Ayesha deflated. She had hoped she could make them see reason. She’d gone over the arguments again and again in the car from the villa. But Zaman had shut her down with almost surgical pragmatism. Not unkind—just utterly devoid of sentiment. That was what stunned her most.
“The plan is sound.” Chief of Army, Lt. General Faisal Rehman, was firm. “We hit India hard, from the LOC down to the southern Punjab belt. We draw them west while China owns the east.”
She could see that hardliners were beginning to fall in line. The generals were the worst of them, she could see them now, the subtle side glances, the small gestures. They were too keen, they had wanted this for decades. Up until now, it had taken everything she had to stop them, every deal, every scheme, every ounce of her legal prowess. It had helped immeasurably, when they just didn’t think they could win. But, she noticed, with China in the mix, their goals seemed more attainable, and their eagerness alarmed her in ways she could not quite fathom.
Air Vice Marshal Amir Shahid raised a cautioning hand. He had been one of her staunchest allies in the reformist movement. She was eager to hear his opinion.
“And what happens when Indian retaliation begins? Their response will not be surgical. It will be Brutal. We have trained for a border war—not total escalation.”
His words were calm, wise. She had hoped that they would settle, that they would register. For a moment they almost seemed to, several murmurs, a nod or two amongst the navy and the air force. It seemed that the old divisions were still holding. But those hopes were soon dashed.
“We will use every lever to deny them escalation dominance,” ISI Director Imran Qureshi spoke next, voice low but resolute. “Their eyes are locked firmly on the east, with concerted cyber-attacks, proxies, misinformation campaigns. We can be across the border and delay an all out Indian response, or even full readiness by days, if not weeks.”
Admiral Shoaib Ahmad, usually measured, now looked grim. Like Khan, it would appear his hopes were also evaporating.
“This assumes they don’t escalate to full-spectrum war. We provoke them hard enough, and Delhi may consider the nuclear option.”
“That will be the last mistake they ever make!” General Javed Malik, Chief of Defence Force, stated.” We will…”
“No!” Zaman interrupted him. “Let us be very clear from the beginning. We will not institgate the eradication of the human race!”
Zaman stared down the man in front of him. “Nuclear weapons are off the table. Absolute last resort. Even if Delhi threatens parity strikes, we don’t move to strategic escalation without this cabinet’s approval—and international backchannel confirmation of threat.”
The general sat there like he had just been slapped. Khan supposed that he had, in a way. He nodded slowly, his expression otherwise unreadable. She decided that she would have to talk with Zaman about him later, there were too many whispers in certain circles about him. If given too free a hand, there was no telling what he would do.
“That clause is non-negotiable.” Zaman stated emphatically “We must retain diplomatic and moral leverage. Let India be the one to overreact.”
Khan noticed that Shahid and Ahmad shared a quick look at that last statement. She could see a subtle layer of tension washing off of them, she made a mental note to approach Ahmad later. If he was truly against the nuclear option, it was likely he was closer to her camp than she had initially estimated.
“Our window is short.” Major General Tahir Nazir, head of special ops, added. “If we delay, India hardens its northern frontier. If we act now, we catch them in overextension—still unsure of Chinese intent.”
The table fell silent. Finally, Zaman stood, signalling the end of the meeting.
“Very well. You have your authorization. Quiet mobilization will begin immediately. Inform only select corps commanders. No media leaks. No official deployments.”
He looked to Ayesha Khan. “Inform Beijing. We’ will comply with their request.”
She nodded, but her silence was louder than agreement. This wasn’t consent—it was containment.
“Make no mistake gentlemen—this is Pakistan’s war, we are not on China’s leash. If they leave us hanging, we will reserve the right to disengage. We fight for Islamabad, not Beijing.”
He looked around the table. Khan was not surprised that he had left her out. Some traditions died very hard.
“Allah be merciful.”
***
The Gulf of Oman - Arabian Sea. August 11th, 2040.
They came at dawn. Not with a declaration. Not with a parade of tanks or air raids. But with silence—and then, the roar of fire. For almost a year the drones had been silent. America had stepped up the ground campaign in an effort to close out the last stages of a war that had dragged on for far too long. The US air force had been relentless in the months prior, flattening any coordinates that had even hinted at firing a drone.
The Americans had thought that they had the upper hand, but Iran had just been biding its time. With America’s eyes on Asia and its fleets stretched thin, Tehran saw its moment.
The first explosion rocked the SS Mariner Sun, a Liberian-flagged crude carrier owned by a French multi-national, charted by a U.S. energy firm, leaving from a Kuwaiti dock, just before 0530 hours. The first of several Shahed-3000 loitering munitions smashed into the bridge, killing the command crew instantly. Two more landed near the vents, causing cataclysmic damage. Three minutes later, a Kilo-class submarine surfaced and launched two wake-homing torpedoes into the ship’s belly. The hull split open like an oil drum.
The Iranian Revolutionary Guard Navy had opened the gates of Hell—and the Strait of Hormuz burned.
The Mariner Sun was only the first. By midday, the strait was an inferno—tankers burning, distress calls echoing, hulls cracking like thunder.
Inside the CENTCOM operations bunker in Bahrain, Vice Admiral Kaleb McPherson stared at the live feeds with a clenched jaw. Over a dozen commercial ships were ablaze. U.S. Navy drone footage showed Revolutionary Guard fast-attack boats swarming tankers, drone submarines mining critical chokepoints, and cruise missile plumes rising from Iranian coastal batteries.
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Intel analysts, already stretched thin from Pacific operations, were calling it what it was:
Operation: Sentinel Horizon was activated within the hour.
The USS Nimitz, pulled from retirement, saved from the scrapyards and fully refitted to more than her former glory, with updated reactors, the newer EMALs launching system and updated arrestor gear, led Carrier Strike Group 12 into the mouth of the Persian Gulf. She wasn’t an echo of the past—she was resilience made manifest, roaring into the strait like a steel leviathan.
She was older than most of the pilots aboard her, solidifying the point that in war, legends don’t retire—they wait. Her decks surged with life once again—F-35Cs lining up for launch, E/A-18 Growlers buzzing with electronic fury, F/A-18 Super Hornets loaded down with strike munitions and Phantom UCAVs being prepped for their first combat sorties.
“We’re taking back the strait,” McPherson had said, stepping from the CVM-22 Osprey that had brought him from the command bunker onto the flight deck. “No more goddamn hostage lanes.”
But this time the Americans weren’t alone.
East of Oman, the Royal Navy’s HMS Invincible cut through the water like a blade—sleek, angular, bristling with aircraft. She was the United Kingdom’s second Melbourne-class carrier, fresh from the yards at Rosyth, she roared with defiance.
On her flight deck, Commander Max Harding watched as twin F-35C Lightnings were catapulted into the sky, afterburners glowing like fireflies in the desert dawn. British Growlers followed, accompanied by E-2Ds and AI-assisted Stingray tankers, launching in coordinated rhythm with American sorties.
Behind her sailed HMS Dauntless, a Daring-class destroyer, and HMS Liverpool a City-class Frigate. HMS Audacious an Astute-class SSN, prowled menacingly beneath the waves. Accompanying them for this voyage and filling out her group was the Province-class destroyer HMNZS Hawkes Bay and the Sound-class frigate HMNZS Pelorus. Following them was a Tide-class replenishment ship—a miniature fleet, trained for war, ready for blood.
Their specific tasking today was to suppress Iranian shore batteries, blind coastal radars, and make the Strait navigable again.
Further west, in the shadows of the Arabian Sea, the French carrier Charles de Gaulle II loomed like a cathedral of steel and thunder. Its Rafale-M2s, SCAF drones, and NH90s launched in tight formation, slipping into the Gulf of Aden to begin surgical strikes on Houthi missile sites and Yemeni Revolutionary Guard-aligned militias. From orbit, French recon satellites piped targeting data directly into the fire control systems of warships and UCAVs alike.
The French weren’t in this war for ideology. But Tehran had struck NATO vessels—and that meant blood had been drawn.
In just six days, the Allied counterstrike lit the skies from Bandar Abbas to the Baluchistan coast.
The HMAS Perth, the lead ship of her class, the Australian version of the New Zealand Achilles-class, was operating in a smaller group of her own, with two Hobart-class air warfare destroyers Sydney and Townsville and two Wattle-class general purpose frigates Maitland and Warramunga.
Perth didn’t wait for orders, like her namesake from all those years ago, she charged the line with bravery in her heart and battle in her voice. As she approached the coast her VLS bays slammed open with purpose, hypersonic warheads howling into the dawn. Behind them, Tomahawks traced their deadly arcs, and the sky lit with vengeance. She had fired the first hypersonic missiles of the offensive. While her Tomahawks surged deep into Iranian territory, hitting a Revolutionary Guard drone depot, the Royal Australian Navy MH-60R helos hunted for the Iranian submarines, as their RHiBs scoured the waters for survivors.
Minutes later, a joint U.S.-UK cyber operation collapsed Iran’s port command-and-control networks. Airbases went dark. Oil terminals went quiet.
Iran scrambled to retaliate, but it was too little too late, the storm was already upon them. They had hoped to starve the world of oil, but their aggression had only galvanized the Allies. It brought France fully into the war, hardened Britain’s resolve, and gave the U.S. military and public a renewed focus.
Within hours, the CANZUK Alliance joined their American ally and declared war on the Iranians.
With the Alliance now firmly in the gulf, this was the birth of a global war —one that would be fought against revisionism, coercion, and tyranny.
And the world was picking sides.
***
The First Clash, Bay of Bengal – Andaman Sea. August 18th, 2040. 03.14 LT
The horizon was still painted in velvet darkness, the faint shimmer of the moon casting fractured lines across the black expanse of the Andaman Sea. The world above was deathly silent — but in the distance, the whisper of war was already gathering.
Silhouetted against the night, the INS Vishal (R32) cut a monolithic figure, its vast hull pushing steadily through the warm, shallow waters south of the Nicobar Islands. A soft wind was coming from the west, brining with the warmth of their homeland. On a night like this, it was said that sailors could taste home on a wind like that.
Vishal had been at sea for months on continuous patrol and her sailors were getting a little homesick. Since the Chinese had moved through Indochina and Southeast Asia, the Indian government was starting to feel penned in, they had been on high alert ever since.
At just under 85,000 tons, the Vishal-class was India’s largest and most powerful warship to date — a nuclear-powered, CATOBAR-configured supercarrier, the first of her class. The Vishal-class represented the culmination of nearly three decades of naval ambition, born of lessons from the original Vikramaditya and the Vikrant, and forged in the fires of a shifting Indo-Pacific balance.
Her sister ship, the INS Vikramaditya (R33), commissioned three years later in 2037, was currently on station in the Arabian Sea, with the heightened tensions between America and their Alliance allies, in the conflict with Iran, the latter’s current round of sabre rattling, had forced the Indian’s into a tactical shift. Vikramaditya was there to guard the western approaches, to make sure that conflict did not spill over onto their shores and keeping an eye on the tightening corridor between Gwadar and Djibouti.
The Vishals, despite bearing the names of earlier vessels, were not mere successors — they were a generational leap, blending indigenous Indian design with foreign collaboration and cutting-edge systems. Closer in size and form to the USS Kitty Hawk than their Soviet-era predecessors, these carriers marked India’s arrival as a true blue-water power.
Aboard the Vishal, the air was thick with tension. After months at sea, the ship’s combat air patrols had grown tighter, their orbits more frequent, and their payloads heavier. Surrounding her in a protective screen was the Visakhapatnam-class destroyers INS Surat and INS Imphal, the Shivalik-class frigates INS Sahyadri and INS Satpura, below the waves was the Kalvari-class submarine INS Vela. The group was trailed by the fleet oiler, INS Aditya.
On the command bridge, Rear Admiral Arvind Rana, Commander of Vishal Task Group, stood calmly at the elevated tactical console, eyes locked on the regional threat matrix unfolding on the main display. At his side, Captain Rajesh Vardhan, the Vishal’s Commanding Officer, maintained the steady presence of a seasoned carrier captain — cool, methodical, unshaken. Together, they had forged a crew that now moved with silent precision, drilled for months in preparation for a moment that now loomed on the horizon.
Below them, Vishal’s flight deck bristled with power. HAL Vajra Mk2 fighters — sleek, twin-engine multirole platforms with folded wings and extended hardpoints — stood poised in launch order. Their lines gleamed faintly in the moonlight, each one a symbol of India''s leap into true carrier-based air dominance.
Powered by twin Safran-Kaveri K10 turbofans, the Vajras had been designed from the outset for naval supremacy: rugged enough for catapult launches, agile enough for dogfights at sea, and with the legs for mid-air refuelling and deep strike operations far from friendly shores. Their avionics suite — born from stealth-bomber lineage and enhanced by India’s own AI-aided systems — made them a lethal match for anything the PLA-N could throw at them.
Each aircraft carried an array of air to air missiles and a pair of BrahMos-NG anti-ship missiles — sea-skimming predators capable of Mach 3 speeds and pinpoint strikes — now slung under the wings like poised fangs.
For decades, India had prepared for this moment — building infrastructure, alliances, and ships like Vishal — not to challenge the world, but to defend her place within it. Now, as tensions surged across Southeast Asia and Chinese battle groups moved with increasing boldness toward the Malacca choke point, the time had come to test that resolve.
And somewhere ahead, just beyond the curve of the Earth and the hum of the radar, the enemy was already moving.
***
Shanxi Task Group, Just South of the Bay of Bengal – Andaman Sea. August 18th, 2040. 03.14 LT
They came from the south, the fleet sailing under cover of darkness through the Sunda Strait, then turning north. Skirting the valley of death that was the Strait of Malacca, where still-resisting Singapore stood defiant — a silent sentinel armed with anti-ship missiles and directed-energy batteries.
They travelled light. A single Type-004 supercarrier, the Shanxi, formed the heart of the group, commanded by Vice Admiral Wang Zhen. She was flanked by a Type 055D cruiser, two Type 052DL destroyers, a Type 093B nuclear attack submarine, and a solitary Type 901 supply ship riding low in the water behind them.
Their mission that night was not to dominate the seas, nor hold a position — it was simpler than that. The Chinese fleet crept forward through the night, their dark silhouette barely distinguishable against the black ocean — a predator closing in.
They had come to pick a fight, and the twin J-35’s about to launch off the deck were going to do just that.
***
E-2D Hawkeye "Roshni 202", Vishal Task Group. – Andaman Sea. August 18th, 2040. 03.27 LT
Roshni 202 was cutting a lazy racetrack pattern around the group at about one hundred and fifty kilometers. They had been airborne for hours and were due for relief. Commander Vikram Mehra shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing sideways at the cockpit controls. In all his years of flying, he''d never quite figured out how to avoid the sweat rash that formed after long hours in the cramped cockpit. Beside him, his co-pilot, Lieutenant Rajesh Singh, chuckled softly.
"I keep telling you, Vik, baby powder’s the way to go!" Rajesh smirked, wiggling around in his seat. He hummed a little tune, clearly enjoying his own antics.
Mehra didn’t share the sentiment.
"Not the time, Singh," he muttered.
In the crew bay, Lieutenant Ananya Patel was uncomfortable for a very different reason. Her eyes darted across the tactical station in front of her, the data streaming in like an endless river.
"Aarav, what do you make of this?" she asked, her voice low but tense.
Sub-Lieutenant Aarav Singh, sitting beside her, leaned forward and squinted at the screen. He scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"What the hell is that?" he muttered, frowning. "It''s too small to be an aircraft."
"It sure moves like one, though," she replied, pointing at the screen. "Look at the high-low pattern. Every now and then, there are two of them."
Aarav turned, his brow furrowed, but the air was still, quiet. For a split second, the world outside felt suspended.
Back in the cockpit, Rajesh was still dancing lightly in his seat. Mehra was about to snap at him to focus when the alarms sounded — shrill and insistent.
"Incoming!"
The crew’s chatter stopped dead in its tracks. In a heartbeat, they were all business, adrenaline flooding their veins. Mehra reacted on instinct and threw the plane over into a steep dive. But it was too late. The system barely registered the PL-9 air-to-air missile as it tore through the silence, exploding just below the right engine, shredding the fuel tank.
"Roshni 202" disappeared in a fireball. The shockwave vibrated through the fuselage, and in the blink of an eye, the crew’s world went from casual to chaos.
Seconds later, there was nothing but the sudden, piercing hum of alarms and the sudden emptiness of the sea below.
***
Command Bridge, INS Vishal, Vishal Task Group. – Andaman Sea. August 18th, 2040. 03.30 LT
On the bridge lights started flashing on screens and alarms started to sound. Admiral Rana scanned the tactical board for incoming threats and found it all of a sudden curiously empty. Captain Vardhan turned to the threat boards, assuming that something had happened to the ship. It was an interesting juxtaposition of their individual characters. One looking outward for danger, the other looking within.
“Bridge, CIC! We have lost contact with Roshni 202, they just stopped transmitting.”
“CIC Bridge. This is Rana, what do you mean lost contact, try to raise them on radio.”
“Bridge, CIC. We have sir, They are not responding.”
Rana looked at Vardhan and the two men’s eyes met, the blood drained from the younger man’s face, he knew it too.
“ACTION STATIONS!” Vardhan screamed and the ship roared into action.
The captain’s command was carried over throughout the fleet and combat systems immediately spooled up, air to air missile and gun batteries came online. Vishal’s own combat control system went live, initialising her two 32 cell VLS Barak 8 SAM launchers and her multiple AK-630 CIWS systems went on automatic and begun searching for targets.
Meanwhile, Rana had picked up the phone, “Wings, launch the alert five and get another Hawkeye in the air, now!”
They did not have to wait long. The two Chinese J-35s screamed across the formation at high speed. Barely visible, even at low altitude, they were confident that they could be shot at and survive the engagement. However, they had underestimated the Indian’s technological advancement. Their locally produced and AI driven combat systems utilising Thales multi band radars were tracking them the whole way. Multiple missiles and tongues of flame followed them, the Chinese aircraft barely made it halfway across before they disappeared in a fireball of their own.
In the next few minutes multiple Varjas fighter roared int the skies, they were followed by another Hawkeye, who once on station vectored them towards the offending strike group. The clash was vicious, planes duelled in the air, missiles flew in all directions. But the real threat had only just arrived.
***
HMAS Vengeance – Andaman Sea. August 18th, 2040. 04.10 LT
HMAS Vengeance was the third and final Virginia-class submarine delivered to Australia under the AUKUS agreement—a machine of silent death, forged for moments like this. That morning, she lay hidden beneath the warm waters of the Andaman Sea, trailing just behind the Chinese Shanxi strike group. The hunt had begun days earlier, when the enemy fleet had broken into the Indian Ocean via the Sunda Strait. Vengeance had been watching.
Their high-speed dash across open water had given them a temporary lead, but they hadn’t shaken her. Not even close. The submarine had stalked them relentlessly, closing the distance meter by meter, hour by hour. The Chinese had moved aggressively, focusing their efforts on reaching striking distance of the Indian carrier group to the north. In doing so, they had overlooked the most dangerous threat of all—the one they couldn’t see.
Their own noisy, high-speed transit had masked Vengeance’s approach. She slipped through the ocean’s depths like a shark beneath the waves, invisible and patient. The Australian crew had already acquired a firing solution on the Chinese submarine—an older but still dangerous Type 093. It had never seen her coming. It died in silence.
Now, at 04:10 hours local time, Vengeance was slowly rising to launch depth. Inside the control room, bathed in the cold glow of red light, her crew moved with quiet precision. Orders were whispered, valves hissed open, and the vertical launch tubes unlocked with mechanical finality. Then—release.
A volley of naval strike missiles surged from the ocean’s surface, breaking into the night sky in staggered succession. Targeting data had already been loaded—two frigates, a supply ship, and the Chinese cruiser. Seconds later, Vengeance dove again, hard and fast, cutting down past the thermocline, her wake vanishing in the swirling depths.
She didn’t run. She repositioned.
Circling wide, the Australian boat came up from a different vector, this time unleashing a spread of heavyweight Mk54 torpedoes at multiple targets. Again, she dove, swung wide, and struck from yet another direction. In a short span of time, she had attacked from three different axes. No single source. No clear direction. Just chaos.
Above the waves, confusion reigned.
From the northern horizon came multiple Brahmos missiles, launched from the Indian Vajras, before they peeled off to the fight the incoming fighter screen.
Chinese ships scrambled to respond. Sonar operators shouted conflicting bearings, bridge crews screamed for countermeasures. With anti-ship missiles streaming in from multiple bearings, and torpedo alerts howling through the fleet, panic took hold. Their defences, optimised for open-ocean missile strikes or close-range subsurface threats—not both at once—crumbled under pressure.
But they persevered. A few enterprising captains broke the pattern, launching anti-submarine torpedoes and rocket-propelled depth charges along the perceived attack axis. Vengeance was already long gone — but it showed they were learning.
The overlapping threats across the battlespace created phantom echoes, false returns. To the Chinese, it felt like they were under attack by a wolfpack. They weren’t.
It was one submarine.
Only Vengeance.
Explosions tore through the darkness as missiles found their marks. The Shanxi took two direct hits amidships and began to list violently. A frigate was bisected by a torpedo and vanished beneath the waves in mere minutes. The Cruiser was the next to fall, hit by both a torpedo and a Brahmos missile breaking her back and sending her below. With the centralised command structure truly shattered, counterattacks continued—depth charges, anti-submarine rockets, scrambling helicopters—were launched blindly, striking empty water. No matter what they tried, the enemy stayed one step ahead.
When it was over, the sea calmed again. Fires flickered across the surface, lighting the debris-strewn waves with a sick orange glow. Metal groaned. Men screamed. Ships that had sailed boldly into the night were now burning wrecks, their hulls breaking apart as the Indian Ocean claimed them.
That morning, Vengeance had lived up to her name.