Paekākāriki coastline – Wellington. 15th October, 2040. 11.25LT
Creating a separate military branch had sounded monumental on paper—politically thorny, logistically complex, and expensive. But in practice, the formation of the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment had unfolded with surprising efficiency. Maybe it was necessity. Maybe it was timing. Or maybe it was just that the country had finally remembered it was a nation surrounded by ocean—and vulnerable because of it.
In truth, the foundation had already been laid. A small, tight-knit amphibious warfare company within the New Zealand Army had long trained for joint operations with the Navy—something of a proof of concept. When the decision came down from Cabinet, that group became the bedrock. Their patches were changed, their roles formalised. The ethos, however, remained the same: to go ashore first, and to hold the line until others arrived.
From there, the growth had been rapid. A headquarters was secured, gear allocated, training ranges scoped out. The windswept hills of Paekākāriki, once home to American Marines during World War II, were selected as the regiment’s new base—partly for their history, mostly for their terrain. The rolling hills, dense bushland, and long beaches offered a natural, rugged training ground. Highway 59 and the nearby rail corridor provided rapid mobility to Wellington or north to Ohakea and beyond. And best of all, the area was still sparsely populated, allowing live-fire training without constant civilian protest.
Infantry battalions were the first to transfer in, bringing their grit and experience. But as the vision widened, so too did the scope. Aviation crews, engineers, naval gunfire controllers, combat medics, comms technicians—they all followed. Pilots arrived from the Army Air Regiment, logistics teams from Defence Command, and soon a complex machine began to take shape, designed for rapid deployment, amphibious assault, and high-tempo operations in the Indo-Pacific theatre.
By August, the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment was 2,500 strong—and still growing. An add campaign similar to the ones running for the other three services began it’s media cycle. Posters went up in recruitment offices and soon with the demand high, a separate desk for the Marines was needed. Uniforms and unit insignias and colour banners were created, combining imagery from the past with a little local flair.
***
Prime Minister Miriama Kahu stood atop a ridge overlooking the coast, wrapped tightly in a charcoal woollen coat. The wind had teeth. It cut across the hills in gusts that carried the sting of sea spray and kicked grit into her cheeks. She didn’t flinch. Summer was technically only weeks away, but the land here held on to winter like a stubborn memory.
To her left and right were various dignitaries, from fellow politicians to Defence Force personal, to the media. They had gathered for the official unveiling oof New Zealand’s next step.
Below, the surf thundered against the beach in steady cadence. Out at sea, the ships of the assault force started to come into view.
“Those aren’t our ships, are they?” Miriama asked, squinting into the morning sun.
“No, Ma’am,” replied Major General Todd Haversham, the regiment’s commander. His uniform was crisp new and clean for the mornings proceedings, his expression carried the weathered calm of a man used to chaos. “We had to borrow two of the Aussies’ Canberra-class LHDs for the evolution. Ours are still in the shop, and the new platform hasn''t been delivered yet.”
“In the shop?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“They’re at Navantia, in Spain,” came the smooth interjection from Oliver Walker, her national security advisor. “Receiving the full Project Alazán retrofit. The upgraded aviation facilities.”
“Ah, yes,” she nodded. “The Swedish aircraft compatibility programme. I remember the brief.” She didn’t—but she’d read something about it on the car ride from the Beehive.
Out at sea, the Royal New Zealand Navy was playing its part. The HMNZS Wellington and HMNZS Christchurch, two Capital-class frigates, surged forward in formation, their five-inch guns thundering onto the simulated enemy positions inland. Plumes of sand and smoke erupted along the tree line. Farther out, the new Achilles-class cruiser HMNZS Orakau held station, her vertical launch cells bristling with interceptors, her job was primarily air defence, however, the Tomahawk payload she carried, would be made use of in a real world assault. sky for threats.
With naval bombardment complete, the borrowed Canberras angled broadside to the shore. Their flight decks erupted into action. AH-64E Apache Guardians roared into the air, guns swivelling, their Hellfires slung beneath stub wings. The assault had begun. A line of AAV-P7/A1 amphibious assault vehicles spewed out of the Canberra’s cavernous insides and began to push through the waves, their dark forms rising and falling like prehistoric beasts.
The first wave hit the sand like a tide of metal and resolve. Amphibious vehicles ground up the beach, hatches flying open, marines pouring out in disciplined bursts. Seconds later, the rotor wash of descending Blackhawks sent sand spiralling as squads disembarked into defensive formations.
Machine guns rattled. Mortars thumped. Digital comms flickered between air, sea, and ground. In the distance, a drone-mounted SHARP pod streamed real-time thermal imagery back to the command post. The entire operation, from naval gunfire to boots-on-sand, had taken less than twenty minutes.
There were gaps, yes. Coordination lags. Some over-enthusiastic rifle teams had overextended, and one Apache nearly clipped a mortar arc. But for a force this new, the cohesion was remarkable.
“These kids are impressive,” Miriama murmured.
Haversham nodded, arms folded across his broad chest with pride. “Give me six more months, Prime Minister, and they’ll be ready to take the gates of hell!”
“They may not have six,” Walker said quietly.
Miriama didn’t reply. The wind howled again, and the sound of gunfire echoed back off the ridgelines. Far to the north, the spectre of war was growing darker. The marines below weren’t just training for the sake of tradition or doctrine.
They were preparing to go ashore in places far less forgiving than Paekākāriki.
***
<u>New Zealand Herald</u>
15 October 2040 | National News | Defence & Security
By Andrew Drake, Senior Political Correspondent
Steel and Salt Air: New Zealand Unveils Its Newest Fighting Force
Paekākāriki — Beneath a slate-grey sky on the rugged Kapiti Coast, history was made today as Prime Minister Miriama Kahu formally unveiled the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment (RNZMR)—the country’s first new military service in over a century.
Flanked by government ministers, Defence Force leadership, and international observers, the Prime Minister watched from a ridgeline as a full amphibious assault exercise played out on the sand below. Waves of amphibious vehicles slammed ashore, helicopters thundered overhead, and the regiment’s new colours snapped in the wind.
“This is not a vanity project,” Kahu told gathered press following the demonstration. “This is about preparing for a world that’s changed—and making sure New Zealand can hold the line when it matters.”
The RNZMR, now 2,500 strong and still expanding, represents a major evolution in the nation’s defence posture. Born from the bones of an amphibious unit within the New Zealand Army, the regiment has rapidly developed into a combined-arms force focused on expeditionary operations in the Indo-Pacific.
“We are a maritime nation,” said Major General Todd Haversham, the newly appointed commander of the RNZMR. “We finally have a force which reflects that reality.”
New Zealand, a Nation Surrounded by Ocean, and Threats
The choice of Paekākāriki as the regiment’s home carries both practical and symbolic weight. Once used by American Marines during World War II, the region’s windswept hills, dense bushland, and sprawling beaches now provide a natural training ground for New Zealand’s next generation of war fighters.
“The terrain is unforgiving, the weather is worse—and that’s exactly what we need,” one Marine officer told the Herald. “If we can fight here, we can fight anywhere.”
That sense of urgency is no accident. With the People’s Liberation Army pushing across Southeast Asia and the Pacific, today''s display felt less like a celebration and more like a warning shot. Behind the ceremonial tone, there was steel in the message.
“The global order is shifting. We have to be ready,” said the Prime Minister’s Advisor Oliver Walker, standing nearby.
Borrowed Ships, Indigenous Resolve
The amphibious exercise featured two Canberra-class landing helicopter docks, borrowed from the Australian Navy for the occasion. New Zealand’s own Guardian-class platforms—two apparently receiving some form of retrofit and a third under construction—will form the backbone of future marine deployments.
Overhead, helicopters gunships provided close air support, while Navy frigates HMNZS Wellington and Christchurch pounded simulated targets inland with precision naval gunfire. Offshore, the new Achilles-class cruiser HMNZS Orakau loomed on what could only be assumed was some form of overwatch.
Military analysts say the exercise marks the most complex amphibious operation New Zealand has staged since World War II.
Recruitment Rises, Eyes Look North
Defence sources report an uptick in recruitment since the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment add campaign launched earlier this year. A dedicated Marine desk has now opened in every major recruitment centre, with uniforms and insignia reflecting a blend of marine heritage and local identity.
But even as the force grows, questions remain about how and where it will be used. The Prime Minister declined to answer whether the Marines would deploy beyond New Zealand’s immediate region.
“We don’t speculate on operations,” she said. “But I will say this—these Marines will be ready for whatever the future holds.”
That future, increasingly, looks uncertain. With Singapore still under siege in the South China Sea, cyberattacks targeting allied infrastructure, and the Chinese war machine’s relentless march to conquest, today’s unveiling was more than a show of capability—it was a signal.
A signal that New Zealand, long a quiet voice in international defence, is no longer content to sit on the sidelines.
And from the sound of boots hitting the sand and the crack of gunfire echoing off the ridgelines this morning, that message was received loud and clear.
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***
House of Representatives, Parliament - Wellington, 16 October 2040. 13.10LT
The air in the chamber crackled — not with electricity, but with something subtler: the scent of sharpened words and the thrum of ambition. Reporters filled the press gallery, pens poised. Staffers leaned forward in the wings. Somewhere behind the Speaker’s chair, the faint rustle of cameras adjusting for focus echoed beneath the hum of anticipation.
Prime Minister Miriama Kahu sat at the front bench, composed but alert, clad in a sharply tailored red suit jacket, a silver fern brooch glinting at her collar. Beside her, Deputy Prime Minister Craig Du Plessis sat ready. The Defence Minister Kevin MacNielty scribbled notes in the margins of a leather folder sat just behind and to the left.
On the Opposition benches, Simeon Forrester, Leader of the National Party the current opposition, sat with his deputy, the shadow Foreign Affairs minister, Katie Phillips.
The Speaker, Tane Johnson, gave her a nod. “The minister of foreign affairs for the Opposition. Question two.”
“Thank you, Mr Speaker.” Phillips started sweetly, her voice was just a little higher pitched than normal. It was what the media had dubbed ‘Her sweet little girl act’, and she played up on that frequently. “My question is to the Prime Minister, now that New Zealand has signed a defence alliance with India and Bangladesh, and given the declaration oof war with Pakistan, would she please explain why the Pakistani cricket team is still being allowed to roam freely on our shores?”
Kahu had been expecting this question. Since their declaration the previous day, it was inevitable that it would come up. The National party was nothing if not consistent.
“Mr Speaker.’ Kahu began, rising to her feat, placing her hands firmly on the edge of the dais in front of her. “In answer to the Member’s question, the cricket team is exactly that, a cricket team. The players have been vetted by our security services and are deemed to not be a threat to national security. Might I remind the Member, that several key industries in our nation rely on these kinds of events to prosper. The team is being kept under close observation, but no plans have been formalised for any form of incarceration.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Phillips smiled sweetly at the assembled ministers, making a point to be seen by the gallery. It was all show with her, always had been, “Mr Speaker, we are forced to disagree, would the prime Minister acknowledge that having the team remain, not only poses an immediate threat to national security, But also sends an inappropriate message to our allies. The Pakistani cricket team should be placed in custody in the least, or better yet, deported to a neutral country!”
The Deputy Prime Minister shot to his feet in response, however, he did have the good sense to maintain some decorum. “Mr Speaker if I may” He waited for the nod. “Might I remind the Member that this great country has just under one percent of it’s population as ethnically Pakistani people, that may not sound like much, but are we also to detain and or deport a hundred thousand of our citizens? This is not the Second World War Mr Speaker!”
The gallery erupted, applause and laughter. The colour of Phillips’ changed ever so slightly, but she wasn’t finished, as she went to stand again, the subtlest of hand gestures from her party leader, the slight hand on her arm held her back for a moment. A quiet whisper in her ear later and she stood once again.
“Mr Speaker, we concede that point.”
This wasn’t over, but now it was Forester’s turn, he adjusted his tie, cleared his throat—and rose to his feet.
The Speaker gave him the nod. “The Leader of the Opposition. Question three.”
Forrester’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade.
“My question is to the Prime Minister. Does she stand by her statement yesterday printed so boldly in this morning’s Herald, that the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment is ‘not a vanity project’? And if so—can she explain why billions of dollars are being poured into a new military force while our hospitals remain under strain and our economy risks overheating?”
Kahu stood slowly, deliberately, the way a general might rise before delivering orders.
“I do stand by it, Mr Speaker,” she said, calm but firm. “The Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment is a vital investment in our national security and our regional responsibilities. The world has changed. We didn’t choose that—but we will meet it. Head on.”
Forrester smiled—just faintly. A predator circling.
“So the Prime Minister seriously believes that launching a miniature expeditionary army—on borrowed ships, no less—will keep New Zealanders safer, rather than fixing our crumbling healthcare system or helping families put food on the table?”
A murmur of disapproval rose from the Government benches. MacNielty leaned forward, lips pressed tight. Across the chamber, Nathan Liu, the Shadow Defence Minister, nodded along with Forrester.
Kahu didn’t hesitate.
“New Zealand is not forced to choose between hospitals and defence,” she replied. “We’re doing both. But the member opposite might need reminding: the hospitals were where they were because of his parties inaction and focus on military spending. Since taking office we have made great strides in rectifying that mess.”
The Prime Minister paused, the members behind her murmuring their agreement. The opposite murmuring their dissent. She stared straight across the room, directly into Forester’s eyes and she continued.
“Might I also remind the member, that unlike when his party was spending up large on military projects with the comfort of peace to fall back on, we as a nation are at war! Singapore is under siege. Taiwan lies in ruin. The Chinese are pushing at our doorstep, our friends are calling for our assistance. Allied vessels are being harassed at sea. This is not about fantasy—it is about cold hard reality.”
Forrester leaned in, voice rising.
“Then perhaps the Prime Minister can tell us Mr Speaker: what exactly are these Marines preparing for? Why they have purchased another aircraft carrier, why her government has committed to buying no less than four Hobart-class destroyers from the Australians? Deployments to Southeast Asia? Operations in the South China Sea? Our Defence Forces are already considerable Mr Speaker, why do we need more?”
Kahu’s gaze narrowed.
“Mr Speaker, if you will. Might I remind the member that it was his government who started the country on this militarisation effort but like in every arena, they failed to complete the task! We have not chosen this situation, it has been thrust upon us by circumstances beyond our control. But, Mr Speaker, we have chosen to be prepared. The additional carrier, the destroyers, the Marines are not a pipe dream. They are a signal—to our allies that if they call, or if danger comes to our doorstep—we will answer and Mr Speaker, we will be ready!”
Her voice rang like a bell in the vaulted chamber. It was a rallying call, and the gallery was answering it. As she sat back in her chair, she threw a passing shot at Forrester.
“We are at war, we can no longer hide behind distance. Not anymore.”
Gasps and murmurs echoed from the gallery above. Some clapped. Others—particularly in the press box—scribbled with renewed urgency.
Forrester struck again, pressing the question like a hammer to anvil.
“Let’s be honest, Prime Minister. This isn’t about defence. This is about legacy. About image. The Iron Lady of the South Pacific—at what cost?”
A pause. Then Kahu stood once more, she stepped forward, her voice ice and iron.
“Mr Speaker, I move to have that name emblazoned on a plaque and nailed to the front of this desk! If that is the only legacy I leave behind, a country that can defend itself. A country that stands with its partners and honours its values and commitments. If that is what the member calls vanity Mr Speaker, then I will wear that title with pride!”
Applause exploded from the Government benches. The Speaker called for order as the din rose. Cameras snapped. The line would be on every news site before the hour was out.
Across the aisle, half-hidden by Forrester, Nathan Liu watched with eyes narrowed, arms folded, expression unreadable. He said nothing. But the flick of his thumb along his belt—a reflex when calculating risk—didn’t go unnoticed.
The battle lines in Parliament had just been drawn.
And the war of words was only the beginning.
***
Dominion Post
17 October 2040 | Opinion | Politics
By Marianne Turei – Senior Columnist
Red Jackets and War Drums: Has Miriama Kahu Found Her Falklands Moment?
There are days in Parliament when history creaks forward, slowly, reluctantly—an inch at a time. And then there are days when it lurches to its feet, plants its boots, and demands attention.
Yesterday was one of the latter.
The debate over the Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment erupted into something far more visceral than a routine exchange of barbs. It was theatre, yes—but not the empty kind. It was sharp, raw, and underpinned by something few politicians dare to show in the House: conviction.
Prime Minister Miriama Kahu’s performance—because make no mistake, it was a performance—had the snap of steel on stone. She was armed, composed, and unflinching. When Simeon Forrester tried to cast the Marines as a vanity project, a taxpayer-funded cosplay for a government seeking gravitas, Kahu didn’t just parry—she went for the throat.
“If that’s what the member calls vanity, then I will wear that title with pride!”
It’s the kind of line that will echo. Through the news cycle. Through the history books, perhaps. And possibly, if she plays her cards right, through a second term.
But we must ask: is this a moment of strength—or a dangerous flirtation with militarised identity?
There is no doubt the world is changing. The wars sweeping across Asia are not hypothetical. The cyberattacks, the sea lanes under pressure, the crumbling illusions of peace—all real. We cannot bury our heads in the sand dunes of Paekākāriki and hope the tide recedes.
And yet... there is risk in firebrand certainty.
Forrester, despite his awkward delivery and barely concealed ambition, raised a question worth answering. Where will these Marines go? What is their strategic utility beyond symbolism? The Guardian-class ships remain incomplete. The Sea Gripens remain unfledged. And while morale may be high, the force is still untested.
New Zealanders deserve to know whether the Marines are a shield—or a spear. And if the latter, whose war will they be thrown into?
Kahu’s government insists we are not being dragged. That we are choosing. But that raises its own spectre: choosing war. Choosing to step beyond the comfortable confines of “peacekeeping nation” into the harsher light of hard power.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point. Miriama Kahu is not Helen Clark. She’s not Jacinda Ardern. She’s not here to be liked.
She’s here to be remembered.
The Prime Minister wore red yesterday—not Labour red, but something closer to command. And if yesterday was her Falklands moment, then today we must ask: what follows after the speech, after the applause, after the Marine boots hit foreign sand?
Because applause fades. History doesn''t.
***
Leuven – Wellington, 17 October 2040. 18:43LT
Outside, the spring wind curled off the harbour and scattered rain across the cobbles. The light was going gold in the puddles. Inside the trendy, upmarket Bar Leuven on Featherston Street, it was all low light and dark timber, the air thick with the mingled scent of hops, roasted malt, and a hint of wet wool from damp coats hung over chairs.
Conversations hummed—mid-level bureaucrats unwinding, junior MPs trying to look older than they were, a Defence staffer in uniform nursing a double whiskey at the far end of the bar, scrolling through something on an encrypted phone.
In a back booth, Nathan Liu sat alone.
His charcoal suit jacket hung over the edge of the seat, a neat line of rain still drying along the shoulder. He cradled a St Bernardus Abt 12, the heavy glass cool in his hand. It was half-drunk, the rich, dark liquid catching what little light filtered through the overhead lamp. Strong, complex—almost ecclesiastical. It fit the mood.
On the table sat a folded copy of the Dominion Post, creased down the middle, front page curling slightly in the humidity. The headline stared up at him in bold type:
RED JACKETS AND WAR DRUMS
Has Miriama Kahu Found Her Falklands Moment?
He had read it twice already. Now, he read it a third time, slower this time, as if somewhere between the lines lay a cipher, something the journalist didn’t know they were revealing. Not what was said. What was implied.
Halfway down the column, he paused, eyes narrowing as they landed on the line:
“…She’s not here to be liked. She’s here to be remembered.”
He let out a breath through his nose—something too measured to be a sigh—then leaned back into the booth, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not amused. Something colder. Calculating.
In the far corner, the two junior Labour MPs erupted in laughter again, their coats still damp and cheeks flushed with IPA. Nathan didn’t look their way. He didn’t need to.
Across the table sat nothing but shadows, an untouched dish of fries going limp with time. Beside the newspaper, his phone buzzed once—no ringtone, no ID. A silent prompt from someone who knew better than to call twice.
He didn’t reach for it.
Instead, he tapped one finger lightly against the tabletop.
Then again.
Then again.
A rhythm. A countdown. Or maybe just the echo of his own thoughts, thudding back from some deeper place.
The mood had shifted. That much was obvious. In Parliament, Kahu had drawn her sword—and drawn blood. The country had watched, spellbound. She’d made her choice in front of the nation and the world. It wasn’t rhetoric. It was doctrine. A new era, loud and red and armoured.
This wasn’t just a speech. It was a signal.
And signals had consequences.
He sipped again, the beer warming now. Somewhere behind his eyes, numbers, timelines, names, and failures slid into alignment like tumblers in a lock. Not the article. Not even the vote. It was what had been done without anyone noticing until it was too late.
A whole new branch. A service raised in silence.
The Royal New Zealand Marine Regiment—conceived, grown, and deployed under his nose. His networks had missed it. He had missed it. Worse, it had been done in broad daylight, and no one had realised what they were seeing until the Prime Minister spelled it out—like a general reading her troops into a campaign already underway.
His lips pressed together. The Ministry of State Security would not be pleased. There would be questions. Cold ones.
And he didn’t have answers.
He wasn’t na?ve. Every agent eventually became expendable. Every node in a network, a potential liability. And if Beijing began to suspect that he had been outmaneuvered by a Pacific backwater, the calculus would shift fast. Disposability was always just one mistake away.
How could I have missed it?
He stared down at the headline one last time.
He could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet—not a landslide yet, but the tremor before it.
For the first time in a long while, Nathan Liu considered that the person who might need to be silenced… was himself.
***
A shadow shifted in the periphery. Not the bar staff—too smooth. Not a patron—too deliberate.
Someone slid into the opposite side of the booth without a word. A man in his late forties, tailored coat damp at the shoulders, thinning dark hair combed neatly back. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, the kind that gave nothing away. Not local, his skin was paler now, than he resided in his home country, but it was still darker than most. A beltline a little too trim to be just a diplomat.
Nathan didn’t look up right away. He took another sip, set the glass down with quiet precision. Only then did he speak.
“Bit early for a debrief.”
The man smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He reached into his coat—not hurriedly, not carelessly—and placed a small black case on the table between them. It looked like a glasses case. It wasn’t.
“Not a debrief,” the man said. His accent just a little too clean, but if you listened, you could still hear the slight hint of Kashmir. “A temperature check.”
Nathan’s eyes flicked to the case, then back to the man. “You’ve seen it.”
The man nodded toward the newspaper, still lying open like a crime scene.
“Hard to miss. She is not playing anymore, is she?”
“No,” Nathan said. “She’s not.”
For a moment, the hum of the bar seemed to fade behind the weight of what neither said. The MPs in the corner were still laughing. The Defence staffer was still nursing his whiskey. But the air around the booth had cooled a few degrees.
“She caught you flat-footed,” the man said. Not a question. A quiet verdict. “And not for the first time either, those missiles proved… disappointing, you will have to try harder.”
“Everyone was caught out. Parliament. Media. Foreign governments. Including yours.” Nathan didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what to tell you about the missiles, I was there, I saw the testing. If the Dragon’s tech boys could not make them work, that is not on me.”
The man gave a dry, unimpressed chuckle. “That’s not what he will care about.”
Nathan didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. They both knew how these things went.
“Word is,” the man continued, lowering his voice just enough to cut under the ambient noise, “they’re already asking around. Wondering if your cover is compromised. If the stress is showing.”
Nathan''s fingers curled around the base of his glass.
“It’s not.”
“It does not matter. Perception becomes policy.”
Silence stretched between them, thin and tight. The man picked up and chip and put it in his mouth. From the look on his face that decision was instantly regretted.
Nathan leaned forward slightly, his voice low. “You want to pass something on, or are you just here to watch me drown?”
The man’s expression didn’t change, but his tone softened by half a shade. He wiped his fingers on the paper napkin next to the bowel.
“They’re watching closely. Very closely. You’ll be expected to… demonstrate your continued usefulness.”
“Meaning?”
A pause. Then, “Someone needs to clean up the oversight. Salvage some credibility. Find some leaks. Find out how an entire branch of the military could appear out of nowhere. An do it quietly.”
Nathan exhaled once through his nose. “And if I can’t?”
The man reached out, slid the case an inch closer across the table. “Then someone else will.”
He stood, buttoned his coat, and left without another word.
Nathan stared at the case.
His beer had gone warm. The paper still sat open. Outside, the rain was starting again, harder now, rattling against the windows like distant gunfire.
He didn’t move.
Not yet.
But in his head, the countdown had begun.
***
Sinclair’s Office, Pipitea Street – Wellington, 17 October 2040. 18:43LT
Sinclair was adjusting well to his new position as director of all foreign intelligence for the CANZUK alliance. But tonight his duties kept him close to home. Henderson, the old SAS hire, that he had assigned to shadow Iron Lotus, had just walked in and sat down. The duty uniform was a nice touch, Sinclair thought.
“Any new developments?” Sinclair asked, closing the folder he had been reading.
“”There is a new player, I’ve never seen him before. Dark skinned, Indian or Pakistani perhaps, he spoke to softly for me to hear with the mic and wasn’t around long enough to get a good look at him. He handed what looked like a glasses case to Liu though, that may be relevant.”
Sinclair kept quiet for a moment, contemplating this latest development. What Henderson was describing could have been another player, could also have been a spymaster, this was a complication.
“We you able to put eyes on him?” He asked finally.
“I signalled for a tale, but he man slipped them seconds after they had acquired them.” He handed over a file. “That’s the best we could do.”
The file contained a brief, very brief description of the man, average height, athletic build. His clothing, expensive but not too flashy. The grainy photos revealed nothing. Sinclair slapped the folder down with frustration.
“Put a second tail on Liu, if this man show up again, have them peel off and stick to him like glue!”
“Will do,” Henderson replied and got up to leave.