South Block, Prime Minister''s War Council Room - New Delhi. August 21st, 2040. 10.02 LT
The rising sun cast long shadows through the tall windows of South Block, its amber glow flickering against the marble walls of India''s most secure war council chamber. The room — built during the British Raj — had borne witness to generations of power and crisis. But never before had the stakes been so high.
The atmosphere in the room was oppressive, thick with the scent of sweat and tea, the weight of history pressing down on the gathered men and women. Around the polished teak table sat the highest ranks of India''s civilian and military leadership — the architects of the nation''s destiny in the hours before full scale war.
Prime Minister Rajiv Malhotra leaned forward in his chair — his dark, weathered face lined with exhaustion, but his eyes sharp beneath his thick-rimmed glasses. He was a career politician — a man who had spent decades navigating the murky waters of Indian bureaucracy. But today, the calculations of policy and diplomacy were giving way to something far more primal.
Survival.
To his right sat Ananya Joshi, the Foreign Affairs Minister — her elegant grey sari stark against the drab khaki uniforms around her. Her sharp, hawk-like features betrayed none of the fear simmering beneath her composed exterior. She had spent the last eight months holding India at arm''s length from the Pacific conflict — balancing pressure from Washington, Beijing, and Moscow like a tightrope walker.
That tightrope had finally snapped.
At the far end of the table stood General Arvind Kapoor, Chief of the Defence Force — a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair and the calm, deliberate manner of a battlefield commander. His uniform was crisp, but his dark eyes were bloodshot. He had barely slept in three days — not since the Vikrajas had drawn first blood over the Andaman Sea.
Beside him sat Admiral Vivek Narayanan, Chief of the Navy — lean and sharp-featured, with the salt-and-pepper beard of an aging wolfhound. Next to him was Lieutenant General Varun Thakur, Chief of the Army — heavyset and glowering beneath his turban, the grim weight of unfinished wars carved into his face.
Major General Nikhil Suri — the head of Special Operations Command — sat quietly at the table''s edge, his black paramilitary uniform conspicuously free of insignia. His face was a mask of stone, but his eyes flicked constantly across the room — as if mapping every exit, every threat.
At the Prime Minister''s left hand sat the final figure — Ajay Mehta, Director of the Research and Analysis Wing. His wire-thin frame was draped in a charcoal Nehru jacket, his deep-set eyes sunken behind rimless glasses. In the last 72 hours, his network of spies and saboteurs had waged a shadow war across South Asia — trying to blunt the Dragon''s Teeth before they could sink into India''s throat.
It was not enough.
A long silence stretched across the table, broken only by the distant thrum of helicopters patrolling the skies above the capital.
Finally, Rajiv Malhotra spoke — his voice low and measured. "The time has come."
He looked slowly around the table, covered in casualty reports and briefing papers from the last three days— his gaze locking with each of them in turn.
"For too long, we have stayed in the pavilion, watching while the world burned. We convinced ourselves that India could remain neutral — that our oil, our technology, and our diplomacy would keep the war from our shores. That dream was shattered when the Chinese and the Pakistanis attacked us three days ago."
His fingers tapped slowly against the polished wood.
"But the Dragon has sent out his openers and has come away with a pair of golden ducks... But, make no mistake, there is no more room to retreat."
His dark eyes settled on Ananya Joshi.
"The Alliance has been knocking on our door for two years, Foreign Minister. The Americans, the South Koreans... even the Japanese. They want us in the fight."
Joshi''s brow furrowed. "They want our bases. Our fuel. Our satellites. They want us to bleed in their war."
"It is not just their war anymore, the Chinese have seen to that, it is now our war as well." General Kapoor''s deep voice rumbled across the table.
"Their expeditionary fleet, or whatever it was, was sunk in the Bay of Bengal." Admiral Narayanan leaned forward, his voice sharp. “I wish we could claim credit, it would appear the Alliance had an asset in the area.”
He glanced at Kapoor.
"The Vikrajas performed well above expectations however, but they won''t stop them alone."
Kapoor nodded grimly. "No, they won''t."
A silence settled — heavier than before.
They all knew what the next words would mean.
Rajiv Malhotra''s gaze swept the room. "We can no longer stand on the boundary rope...we must take our place at the crease!"
A long silence stretched — broken only by the distant thrum of helicopters patrolling the skies above Delhi.
Joshi''s voice was quiet, but razor-sharp.
"If we formally align with the Allied Forces, Beijing will declare us an enemy state by the end of the week. The cyber offensives will intensify. The sabotage cells will activate across Mumbai, Hyderabad... everywhere. Our oil exports will be blockaded — our economy throttled."
"They''re already doing it." Ajay Mehta''s thin voice cut through the hush.
All eyes turned toward the spymaster. His fingers tapped slowly against the tabletop — mimicking Xiang Wei''s gesture half a world away.
"Three MSS cells neutralized in Hyderabad last night — but there are more. Dozens more. The Dragon''s Teeth are already inside the house."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Varun Thakur''s deep, gravelled voice rumbled across the table. "Let them come."
His dark eyes locked with Kapoor''s.
"Every man in the Army remembers what happened in Galwan Valley. Every Sikh in Punjab remembers 1984. Every Kashmiri remembers the blood price we''ve paid in shadows."
He leaned forward slowly. "We''ve been fighting this war for seventy years."
A slow breath filled the room — a quiet, simmering rage rising beneath the surface.
"If we join the Alliance...” Rajiv Malhotra''s eyes flicked toward Kapoor. “How long will it take to mobilize?"
Kapoor''s voice was steady.
"Seventy-two hours. The Eastern Command will reinforce the Andamans. The Vikrajas will fly combat air patrols over the Nicobar Passage. The Navy will deploy the INS Vikrant, to join the INS Vishal battle group into the Bay of Bengal."
He glanced at Admiral Narayanan, and the man nodded his agreement.
"The Alliance will send carrier reinforcements from Australia."
"And the Army?" Malhotra queried, it all sounded so easy.
Thakur''s dark eyes glittered. "We march."
Rajiv Malhotra leaned back slowly — his glasses reflecting the amber sunlight.
"The Tiger will rise."
A long silence stretched across the room.
Finally, Ananya Joshi spoke — her voice quiet, but unyielding.
"I will call Wellington and Canberra."
Rajiv Malhotra nodded. "Make the calls."
He glanced at Ajay Mehta.
"Burn every MSS cell you can find. And tell the Dragon..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "...that India remembers how to fight."
Kapoor''s voice was low.
"If we go into bat, Mr. Prime Minister... there will be no going back."
Rajiv Malhotra''s dark eyes flicked toward the window — where the first fighter jets of the Tigershark Squadron streaked across the morning sky.
"There never was."
***
Ruapehu Lodge, New Zealand, Diplomatic Conference – New Zealand. August 28th, 2040. 19.45 LT
The grand dining room at the lodge was filled with the soft hum of conversation as the leaders of the world’s most pivotal nations gathered around an expansive, mahogany table. The room was tastefully lit, with candles casting flickering shadows on the polished wood, the soft scent of New Zealand pine lingering in the air. Outside, the night was dark and crisp, the mountains standing silent in their watch over the summit that was about to reshape the future of the Indo-Pacific.
At one end of the table sat Prime Minister Miriama Kahu, her sharp gaze fixed upon the gathering. To her right, Derek Harper, New Zealand’s Foreign Affairs Minister, was deep in conversation with Katie DuPhries, his Australian counterpart. The rest of the CANZUK leadership, including Prime Minister Richard Winslow of the United Kingdom and Prime Minister Thomas Bouchard of Canada, were seated comfortably, their quiet chatter betraying the gravitas of the moment.
Across from them, Prime Minister Rajiv Malhotra of India sat, his posture straight, but the tension in his face was visible. His eyes flitted between the gathered leaders — an unspoken impatience tugging at him as India’s position continued to grow dire. The war against China was no longer distant. It was now on India’s doorstep, and every passing moment was becoming more crucial. Ananya Joshi, India’s Foreign Affairs Minister, sat beside him, her expression a delicate balance of diplomacy and impatience. She could sense Malhotra’s frustration, and it mirrored her own. The summit, though significant, felt like a slow-moving vehicle to a fast-approaching storm.
To their left, Prime Minister Amina Rahman of Bangladesh, poised and composed as always, sipped her wine carefully, her calm demeanour hiding the deep unease she must have felt. Foreign Minister Karim Chowdhury, though soft-spoken, had a steely determination in his gaze — he had long known how precarious the situation was for Bangladesh, and the stakes were only growing higher.
The room was an odd blend of camaraderie and quiet tension. Their dinner had been pan fired chicken breast, served on a bed of jasmine rice infused with turmeric and cumin. It was served with sparkling apple juice, with a feijoa and apple crumble and vanilla flavoured ice cream made from coconut milk for desert. The formalities of dinner had been completed, but the real work was just beginning.
Rajiv Malhotra broke the silence, his voice low but commanding as he addressed the table.
“Let’s not waste time with pleasantries.” His eyes flicked toward the others, calculating. “The situation in our region grows more perilous with every passing hour. We’re here tonight to formalize a partnership — a commitment, not just in words but in action. India and Bangladesh have been fighting this war from the shadows for too long. We need to be sure we are not alone in this.”
Miriama Kahu nodded, the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. “We understand, Prime Minister Malhotra. CANZUK’s commitment to your cause is resolute. We’ve seen the devastation in the Bay of Bengal, and we understand the urgency of your position. But this must be more than just words. It must be action, on every front. We too have taken losses in this war.”
Her gaze swept over the others, her words directed at Richard Winslow and Thomas Bouchard, who both nodded in agreement.
Thomas Bouchard spoke next, his tone calm but firm. “The Pacific remains our greatest concern, but the Chinese expansion cannot be allowed to continue unchecked. We’re in this together. Canada will provide air and naval assets to reinforce India and Bangladesh’s positions, especially in the Bay of Bengal. We have already agreed to take on the bulk of convoy protection duty from Australia and New Zealand, I see no reason not to include your nations as well in this.”
Katie DuPhries, seated next to Bouchard, added, “The Australian Navy is prepared to offer its full support. We’ve already moved assets into the region as I am sure you are now aware, and with the INS Vikrant joining the INS Vishal battle group, the balance of power will shift dramatically.”
But despite the diplomatic assurances, the tension in the room was palpable. India was already under pressure, and Ananya Joshi could no longer mask the impatience in her voice. “We need to formalize this immediately. We cannot afford delays. The Chinese will not wait. And neither will the Pakistanis.” Her sharp gaze turned to John Mitchell Australia’s Prime Minister. “Your forces need to be ready. The situation in the Bay of Bengal demands more than just words. We need commitment in the field.”
Mitchell, sitting next to Miriama Kahu, glanced toward the Indian Foreign Minister before speaking. “Australia will contribute to the coalition in any way necessary as we always have. Our intelligence, our maritime forces, and our forces in the Pacific will be available.” He took a breath and a sip from his glass. “However, need I remind you that we have been in this shooting war for since January, we are happy to help you, but your tone needs to meet the room.”
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A subtle shift in the air — there was an undeniable undercurrent of tension as the leaders exchanged glances, each aware of what was at stake. But there was something else on the table, something unspoken. The Pakistani cricket team was in New Zealand, playing on a tour that had been scheduled long before the outbreak of war. The presence of the team was becoming an increasingly delicate issue.
Rajiv Malhotra eyed Miriama Kahu with quiet intensity. “Prime Minister, while we stand on the precipice of a new era of cooperation, there is the matter of the Pakistani cricket team. Their presence here — in your country, under these circumstances — it raises questions. Questions we cannot afford to ignore.”
Miriama Kahu did not flinch. She knew the implications well. “It’s a complication, yes. They are a sports team, not soldiers and I am sure they feel just as bad about the situation as we all do. We will address this particular topic at another time, for now, I believe our priority should be to formalize the military and diplomatic alliance here.”
There was a brief pause before Ananya Joshi spoke again, her voice sharp. “This is more than a diplomatic formality. This is about survival. If we are to face Beijing and Islamabad, we need to act decisively, not just talk. If you truly wish to fight alongside us, then let us begin.”
The tension in the room was thick. The conversation was no longer about pleasantries or ceremonial promises. It was about the harsh realities of the war to come.
Miriama Kahu set her glass down, her gaze hardening. “Very well, Prime Minister Malhotra. Let us begin. But know this: Our commitment to our partnerships is very real, as I am sure every party here can attest to. We have lost countless lives already to Chinese aggression and are prepared to continue. When we make this arrangement, we will hold you accountable. But we will NOT be lectured to!”
Rajiv Malhotra had the face of a slapped dog, his head whipped around in shock. Malhotra took in the look on Joshi’s face at a glance, he noticed hers was not that much better. She was young and rash, that was one of the things he liked about her, but in this instance, she had gone far too far. Malhotra turned back the New Zealand Prime Minister and nodded his acknowledgement of the rebuke. Placing his hand gently on the arm of his Minister, his voice steady as he looked around the table.
“We most humbly apologise for our outburst, it was not our intention…” He felt movement in Joshi’s arm and squeezed just a little to maintain control. “…to insinuate that any one nation at this table is more important than the other. Let us sign an agreement — and let it be the foundation of something far greater.”
Miriama Kahu nodded, and he released Joshi’s arm with a pointed look.
As the dinner continued, the formality of the gathering gave way to the promise of action — and the realization that this was only the beginning of a much larger conflict that would shape the future of the world.
***
Defence Pact Signing Ceremony, Press Room, Beehive – Wellington. August 30th, 2040. 11.45 LT
The relentless spring rain lashed against the glass walls of the Beehive, a furious drumbeat from the heavens themselves—a divine protest, perhaps, against the storm the world had now fully stepped into. Thunder rolled across the grey Wellington skyline like distant artillery fire, each growl a reminder of what loomed beyond diplomacy. Wind battered the building, tugging at the flags above the executive wing, as if trying to tear down the symbols of state before war could.
Inside, the grand press room was dimly lit, the low hum of cameras and the occasional cough of a journalist the only sounds breaking the heavy quiet. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that came before the shattering of eras. The walls, usually sterile and white, seemed to absorb the solemnity of the moment—draped in the shadow of history being made.
Behind the long, polished table stood the flags of the Pacific Allies: New Zealand, Australia, the United Kingdom, Canada, the United States. They hung solemnly behind the leaders, their fabric unmoving, as if aware of the blood that would soon be spilled in their name. Each represented a promise, a burden, a battlefield yet to be named.
At the head of the table stood Prime Minister Miriama Kahu. Unflinching. Her presence, composed and battle-worn, was carved from the demands of leadership in an age of collapse. The months had not been kind—her frame had grown leaner, her eyes darker, but they burned with unyielding resolve. She was not here to be liked. She was here to endure.
Beside her, Australia’s Prime Minister John Mitchell stood rigid, jaw clenched, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes flicked occasionally to the ceiling as if tracking some ghost of radar, always assessing, always on alert. To his right stood the UK''s Richard Winslow, stiff-backed in a dark blue suit, a bulldog of a man whose clipped tone and military background gave weight to every movement. And beside him, Canadian Prime Minister Thomas Bouchard—tired-eyed, lips pursed—carried the silent posture of a man who had seen the world collapse once before and was determined not to watch it happen again. The last in the row was Carter Jeffries, United States Ambassador to New Zealand, shoulders squared, jaw set. His was the face of a world order being asked to adapt or die.
The chamber doors opened with a soft pneumatic hiss.
The room turned.
Two figures entered.
Rajiv Malhotra, Prime Minister of India, walked through. His stride was firm but unhurried, each step announcing the weight of a nation that had chosen its side. His suit, a charcoal grey Nehru cut, was understated—but he wore it like armour. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the room not for approval, but for acknowledgment.
Beside him walked Amina Rahman, Prime Minister of Bangladesh. Her green and cream sari was wrapped with quiet defiance, each fold a reminder of history carved in blood and survival. Her poise was immaculate. She was the first Bangladeshi leader in decades to walk into a military alliance not as a supplicant—but as an equal.
Trailing them were two figures in dress uniform, their medals catching faint glints of the overhead lighting. General Arvind Kapoor of India—tall, severe, his face weathered by command and consequence—stood like an immovable pillar of doctrine and fire. Beside him, General Rahmat Khan of Bangladesh radiated a quieter intensity, his gaze sweeping the room like a general already calculating exits, angles, ranges.
As the two heads of state approached the signing table, the two generals circled them and placed the flags of their respective nations, which they had symbolically borne across the threshold, in line with those of the allies. The weight of their presence shifted the room. The periphery had stepped into the centre. The storm had redrawn its eye.
A silence descended—not awkward, not uncomfortable, but reverent. As if the room itself knew this was no longer ceremony, but ritual.
Kahu broke it. Her voice, clear but edged with steel, carried without strain.
"You have both come a long way to be here."
Malhotra''s gaze met hers. When he spoke, it was soft, but his words struck like flint against stone.
"We have always been a nation that waits," he said. "We have waited through centuries. Through conquest, through famine, through division. But not this time."
His eyes moved across the table—each leader measured and held in turn.
"The Dragon will not stop. It will come for us all. India can no longer stand on the boundary rope… we must go in to bat."
The cricket metaphor—so deeply Indian, so profoundly final—landed with a force words rarely carried. The weight of it seemed to vibrate in the air. Something had changed.
Beside him, Amina Rahman spoke. Her voice was smooth, precise.
"We are prepared to sign the Alliance Defence Pact and commit our forces to the Indo-Pacific Allied Command. Bangladesh stands with India. If they march, we will march."
The line was bureaucratic in form—but the world tilted beneath its weight.
Carter Jeffries let out a slow breath. No performance, just release. His face betrayed what everyone in the room was thinking.
A nuclear power. An industrial giant. A military machine with manpower unmatched. India’s alignment didn’t tip the scales—it shattered them.
And yet, the triumph was cold. Everyone here knew what this would cost. For years, China had moved shadows around Delhi—sending envoys, lobbyists, business magnates. Promises of trade, threats of encirclement. But all of that had died the day the missiles fell on Dhaka and the fires rose in the Bay of Bengal.
There were no theatrics. No applause. Only the click of a camera shutter and a wave of quiet gasps from the press gallery—like the sound of history turning a page.
She had grown up in the aftermath of collapse. Partition. Betrayal. Floods and coups and coups again. Her words were not just policy—they were the end of a long arc of helplessness. And they landed with the force of a vow.
Kahu looked down the line, her eyes scanning each face, her voice once more rising—not in volume, but in gravity.
"This is not a moment for celebration," she said. "This is a commitment—to each other, and to the survival of our nations. We are bound now, not by promises, but by blood. And the cost of breaking this pact will be paid in lives."
A hush followed. Not silence—but the kind of stillness that gripped crowds at funerals and at the beginning of war.
Malhotra nodded once. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and picked up the stylus from the touchscreen embedded in the centre of the table. The gesture was deliberate. Weighted.
"Let us sign," he said. "Let us be bound by this pact."
He pressed the stylus to the glowing interface. A faint chime confirmed the signature.
The cameras clicked louder now, their flashes echoing like distant mortars. One by one, the others followed—Mitchell, Winslow, Bouchard, Kahu herself. Jeffries, though not a head of state, signed in representation of U.S. military integration. Rahman signed last, her hand steady.
It was done.
Outside, thunder cracked again, loud enough to rattle the windows. The rain kept falling—washing the capital clean or perhaps preparing it for what came next.
History had been written. And blood would follow.
***
Joint Operations Briefing, Indo-Pacific Allied Command - Darwin. September 3rd, 2040. 08:10 LT
The room buzzed with quiet intensity. A constellation of uniforms from half a dozen nations surrounded the operations table. The whites of the navy, the greens of the army and the blues of the air force. All eyes were drawn to the glowing map on the table screen. The Indo-Pacific was ablaze in red and blue markers—conflict zones, fleet positions, logistical corridors. A theatre stretched thin.
The Darwin command was no forethought. For years the Australians and the New Zealanders had prepared for this moment. The building, on the outskirts of RAAF Tindal, was a multilayered affair—staff offices, cafeterias, meeting rooms, a lecture hall, and at its heart: the command centre.
The command centre was a larger version of the combat information centre you might find aboard a ship. There were various stations dotted around, monitoring specific aspects of the front. All information and data collected from front line sources passed through this building first. It was a testament to the Australian efficiency.
Vice Admiral Malachi Mason of the Royal New Zealand Navy stood at the head of the table, commander of Allied Naval Forces South Pacific. He had personally flown one of his new Sea Eagles to be present at this meeting and would leave again shortly afterward.
He was stood beside General Arvind Kapoor of the Indian Army. They were flanked by several other senior officers, including Air Vice Marshal Sir Peter Ellsworth, the commander of all allied air forces in the south pacific, Rear Admiral Caroline Troughton of the Royal Canadian Navy and Lieutenant General Lachie Patterson, of the Australian Army, commander of allied ground forces southern pacific. The commanding admirals of each carrier group were beaming in by secure satlink. None of them sat. There wasn’t time for comfort.
Vice Admiral Mason began, his voice clipped and precise. “With the signing of the Indo-Pacific Defence Pact, the operational map shifts. We’re no longer simply containing China in the east. The theatre now extends across the full breadth of the Indian Ocean. And we finally have the weight to hold both lines.”
He turned, gesturing to the western arc of the map where the Indian Ocean met the Arabian Sea.
“HMAS Melbourne and her group will reposition west. She’ll form the nucleus of our Southern Task Force, operating under Indo-Pacific Allied Command, Indian Sector. She’ll be supported by Ark Royal task group backing up the Indians and making sure the PLA-N don’t try another end run like last month, are you all right with that, gentlemen?”
Mason indicated two of the men on the screen, Rear Admiral James Harrington, who nodded and Rear Admiral Sir Andrew Pembroke, who replied. “That sounds like a well thought out plan Admiral.”
Asking was a formality, and everyone present knew it. But Mason liked to do things a certain way, it encouraged the voicing of different ideas, without sounding insubordinate.
“For now, it’s not safe enough for any of us to transit the Malacca Strait, even with Singapore in friendly hands. Intelligence has the PLA deploying rockets and anti-ship artillery all along the coastlines of Malaysia and Sumatra, so don’t get caught out until we can flatten them.
General Kapoor nodded. “We’ll coordinate air strikes and anti-submarine patrols out of INS Hansa and Car Nicobar. Vikraja squadrons will forward deploy in rotational packages. Our Andaman Naval Command is already looking at ways to secure operating corridors.” His voice was heavy with resolve. “This time, the lines are drawn on our terms.”
Air Vice Marshal Ellsworth leaned in, he was an athletic man, with the build of a runner. A man who used to long hours in the cockpit and the scowl of a million low suns to prove it. “We have managed to form a coherent plan to cover air operations out of northern Australia. We plan to start making bombing runs within the week. Our G2 is formulating a worthy list of targets as we speak.”
“Good, we’re going to need it.” Patterson chimed in.
Lieutenant General Lachie Patterson was not a man you wanted to trifle with. He had a hard earned reputation and the successes with the ground campaign in the Solomans and Papua New Guinea to prove it. He had also flown in especially for this meeting and his uniform showed it, jungle fatigues complete with New Guinean dirt and sweat stains. An RNZAF C-390P Millenium transport aircraft was waiting on the tarmac outside,
“The Chinese are hitting us hard all up and down the line. Our boys are holding, and the special troops are doing the business, but the PLA is reinforcing fast and we’re starting to lose pace. We need to slow down their supply train.”
“Sir peter, make their supply lines a priority, all right?” Mason asked the Air Marshal, who nodded. Mason then paused for a second to think, he nodded sagely after coming up with a plan and continued. “With the Australian and British battle groups reinforcing the Indian Ocean off Indonesia, that covers a lot of ground. We’ll also send in Australian and Kiwi submarines, their role will be deep interdiction—cutting off Chinese attempts to push naval assets through the Sunda routes and playing havoc with shipping, that should slow down their reinforcements. Meanwhile, we’ll move in and start hammering their positions from the north, will that be sufficient Lachie?”
“I think that should cover it yes.” The man smiled at Mason, it was a gruff predatory smile, but it carried actual affection, the two men had taken an instant liking to each other. They both knew their jobs and knew to stay out of each other’s way. But they also knew that would be there if called.
On the eastern flank, the map lit with a cluster of blue—ships, arrows, and overlapping radar envelopes.
Rear Admiral Troughton stepped forward. “Canada’s destroyer squadron is moving into position, we are assuming full convoy escort duty in the Central Pacific. Our River-class destroyers supported by two fleet tenders and our two Virginia-class boats will keep shipping safe.” Her tone carried calm assurance. “We’ll keep the lanes open.”
Mason added, “Thank you Admiral, our Kahu corvettes will keep you company at various stages. They’ve been doing it for months already, they know the way and where the trouble spots are, they’ll keep you safe.”
Troughton’s lips twitched into something close to a smile. “Corvettes with teeth, eh? That’s my kind of party.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “But make no mistake—this is still a patchwork. We’re stretched across too many axes. Without the subcontinent’s full commitment, the entire eastern bulwark would have buckled in weeks. China knows that.”
A quiet fell.
General Kapoor leaned forward, tapping a blinking cluster of red off the southern coast of Sri Lanka. “We believe Beijing will test us here. Not directly—not yet. But they’ll prod. Interdiction fleets, drone swarms, false-flag operations. Possibly even proxy escalations out of Gwadar or Myanmar.”
Troughton nodded. “Let them try. We’ve trained for asymmetric convoy defence since the Arctic Crisis and if I’m not mistaken our unblemished record still holds from the second world war. We’ll hold the line.”
“And we’ll hit back if they cross it,” Mason said flatly.
The overhead lights dimmed as the table map pulsed and redrew, expanding to reveal the wider Pacific. Arrows repositioned, zones thinned, logistical lines frayed like stretched nerve endings. The cost of every move was visible in real time—rear logistics delayed, patrol zones left thinner, fleets forced to operate without full carrier coverage. But in the centre, a new bastion was forming. India. Bangladesh. A southern wall the Dragon hadn’t accounted for.
“Looks like we have the semblance of a plan to move with.” Mason Stated. “We have the Canadians guarding the pantry, the ground forces holding the line, the air force ready to wreak havoc and the navy split evenly, with Vishal and Vikrant in the Bay of Bengal, Ark Royal and Melbourne in the Indian Ocean, Queen Elizebeth and Carl Vinson in the Arafura and Tangaroa, Enterprise and Australia in the Bismark and Philippine sea. It’s thin, but I think it just about covers it. Is there anything else?”
Kapoor pushed his finger onto another spot, this one was a small stretch along the Bangladeshi-Myanmar border. “You should know, we have a unit in this region, they are… unconventional, but very effective. The Bangladeshis call them the ‘Black Tigers’, they have been performing various asymmetric warfare tasks since hostilities broke out.”
Patterson took particular notice of this statement, between New Zealand’s Māori Regiment and the Papua New Guinean special forces battalion, he was no stranger to this kind of tactic. He decided he would keep a close eye out for any reports.
Kapoor looked at Mason. “You said this theatre is no longer just about containment. You’re right.”
He straightened, eyes hard. “It’s about setting the conditions to win.”