HMNZS Tangaroa – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 04.55LT
They came from nowhere. The Chinese had learned their lessons from Taiwan, the Philippines, and Indonesia, and they had learned them well. Their fleet turned out to be more than just a carrier group, it was Fitzpatrick’s worst fears made manifest, this was an invasion fleet. On the Chinese side, three full Type-004 carrier groups, supporting five Type-076 amphibious groups, they were surrounded by Type-055 cruisers, Type-052C and D destroyers, Type-054 frigates, with several LST’s, LSDs and oilers in the tail. Over forty ships, and that was just the ones they could see.
On the Alliance side was the Tangaroa group, the Enterprise group and the Australia group. It was a tough ask but if they could hold out long enough, a smaller fleet was sortieing from Suva. The Achilles-class cruiser HMNZS Gallipoli, the Province class destroyers HMNZS Canterbury and HMNZS Otago, the Capital-class frigates HMNZS Hamilton and HMNZS Greymouth, and the Mako-class submarines HMNZS Taniwha and HMNZS Tuatini. This made up the bulk of Fleet base Pacific’s strength.
If they made it in time the Alliance side would have three fleet carriers, four cruisers, eight Destroyers, eight frigates and five submarines. Twenty eight ships, versus forty, it was a tough ask indeed. Another ten ships had been cleared of their current tasks and were steaming north at full speed, but they would not make it in time for the first round.
Fitzpatrick had done his best, all he could hope, was that by the time they got there, they would have something to support. His deepest fear was that he was sending them just to search for survivors.
In an effort to close the distance towards reinforcements, Mason ordered the fleet to turn south. It was a gamble, if they were not able to defeat, or at least push the Chinese back, the enemy would be that much closer to their goal and there would be nothing left to stop them.
***
The first wave came before dawn. The ocean had been deceptively calm for hours — long swells under a pale, inkling sky, stars fading slowly into bruised daylight. The combined fleet of the three allied fleet carriers and their escorts, had sailed down through the Bismark Sea, headed towards the Vitiaz Strait, closer to reinforcements and allied air cover from New Guinea and the Solomans. But beneath that stillness, under the waves and in the ether, the Chinese were already moving.
The Alliance thought they’d been the ones in control. They were wrong, the waters to the north of Papua New Guinea, had yet to be seeded with the underwater detection net, the Alliance had only so many ships built for that task, and so much ground to cover. The Chinese were making great use of that fact. For all their strengths above the waves, below them, the Chinese, with their considerably larger fleet, still had the advantage. They had seeded their submarines throughout the island chains, making keen use of choke points, where one or two ships could carry the weight of many. For the allies, this truth came far too late. The Chinese had outplayed them. They had learned.
This time, there were no exposed logistics lines, no lazy signal chatter to exploit. Just silence, discipline, and brutal coordination.
The first torpedo hit the USS Enterprise amidships at 04:56. The second struck thirty seconds later, farther aft — lower, deeper. A third went wide, fooled by a last-second decoy pod jettisoned by a panicking sailor. But the damage was done, Enterprise began to list five degrees to port, smoke billowing from her hull, fires licking at the hangar deck, threatening to cook off stores of ammunition being brought up to the deck.
Damage control crews swarmed like ants, foam jets hissing. Bulkheads sealing. Emergency pumps kicking in and dowsing every available surface with tropical sea water. Within a matter of minutes, the DC crews had most of the fires under control, the hanger bay was awash and slippery with water and foam, causing multiple serious fall injuries, especially when she heeled too hard to port. But, she wasn’t dying — not today!
Torpedo reports were coming from every direction, sonar operators losing themselves in the clutter. Towed Nixie countermeasure systems started activating throughout the fleet. Ships surged left and right, while the frigates hunted. HMAS Sydney took a torpedo in the bow, shearing the front section from the forward edge of her gun mount to the tip of her clipper bow clean off.
The Capital-class frigate HMNZS Auckland, not able to get out of the way fast enough, collided with the Hunter-class frigate HMAS Tasman amidships, it was a glancing blow, and both ships sailed away from it. However, the Auckland’s new course took it straight into the oncoming path of the Chinese Yu-9 heavy torpedo that was destined for the Tasman. Auckland’s crew did not see the torpedo that killed her, until it was far too late. From that day on, a small shrine to the Auckland appeared in every mess aboard Tasman, and any one had better watch themselves if they bad mouthed the kiwis around any one of the Tasman’s crew.
And the worst was still to come.
Admiral Mason watched it all from the CIC aboard Tangaroa. “All units, Action stations. Tell the pickets to begin counter-submarine operations. And get the birds in the air, we’re gonna have company!”
Even before the order finished leaving his mouth, the sea erupted to the west.
Missiles arced in from beyond the horizon — dozens of them, skimming fast and low. Chinese sea-skimmers, fired from Type-055 destroyers hidden behind forward-placed Type-071 assault ships. They had used the troopships as cover — masking their approach — and now the cruisers leapt forward and were opening their deadly dance.
“Hostiles inbound… Missiles detected! Track ID 057 through Jesus… 251, bearing 076 degrees, range 11 nautical miles, speed Mach 5. Assess as hostile! Impact in 25 seconds!” One of the many radar operators shouted.
“Initiating counter measures." Lt. Cmdr Cole Turner stated calmly.
A low hum spread across Tangaroa’s deck, even as aircraft were taxiing to the catapults and shooting off the bow, her considerable defences were coming to life. VLS launched evolved sea sparrow missiles, SeaRam Mk144s, 20mm Phalanx CIWS and the crowning glory, her two HELIOS-TWK Mk1 500kW solid state laser defence systems.
HMNZS Achilles didn’t hesitate. Captain Connor Townsend had once again dressed for the occasion, his Kahu Kiwi draped proudly across his shoulders. He stood tall on the bridge a beacon of strength and mana for the men and women under his command, A guiding light of calmly fierce determination, he ordered Achilles forward. She surged ahead, her Aegis combat system coming to life — multiple missile launches from her VLS tubes streaking salvos into the sky. Short and long range SAMs lifting off in angry clusters. Her own directed energy weapons, more HELIOS-TWK Mk1s coming on line, striking missiles out of the sky with pinpoint accuracy. Her SeaRam and Phalanx CIWS blotting the ones that got too close out of the sky, while her five inch, acting like a flak gun of old, created clouds of superheated debris that pushed missiles off course, or damaged them enough to send them careening into the watery depths.
HMAS Queensland, a Royal Australian Navy Perth-class cruiser, not to be outdone by the Kiwis, joined the fray, her own weapon systems exactly the same as Achilles, making short work of the incoming threats. The two ships were near identical, they just had a different class name, due to their origins.
USS Port Royal, one of the US navy’s sole remaining Ticonderoga-class ships, also surged forward to join the fray, but she was old, an excellent vessel in her day, but not in the same league as the Alliance cruisers. Missiles surged from her VLS tubes, her CIWS spitting arcs of flame. But it was no use, her death was as sudden as it was violent. Three Chinese YJ-12 missiles struck her, one in the super structure head on, two from the port side one low on the hull, the other arcing down on her rear deck, she exploded instantly. The last missile had struck her in the rear VLS launcher, the remaining missiles cooking off, the resulting explosion cascading through the ship, showering those near by with molten debris and still burning fuel oil.
USS Intrepid, an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer stepped in to take her place, her own HELIOS-TWK Mk1 DEW system, just as powerful as those on the Alliance vessels, having been refit in Whangarei with the larger system, started punching targets from the sky. Her movements were controlled rage, the American crew seeking vengeance for the loss of their shipmates.
More destroyers swarmed around the heavies, protecting them, while the faster slightly more agile frigates began hunting for the sub surface threats, confident that their bigger sisters would keep them safe from harm.
Mason watched the footage through a side screen — Achilles and Queensland sliding between the barrage, lighting up like a Christmas day parade, with white painted missiles on plumes of flame, red beams of light shooting out in all directions like a glam rock concert light show, tongues of flame from the close in systems. It was a sight to behold, but could they keep up? Missiles detonated all around them, vaporized by point-defence systems. But Achilles and Queensland held the line.
“Jesus Christ Admiral, look!” Said Rossovich, pointing at the screen. “How the hell did they manage that!.”
Mason looked where the man was pointing and his wonderment grew, against all odds, Enterprise was back in the fight. She had righted herself and was once again launching aircraft. Mason couldn’t help but smile to himself. He could just imagine Admiral Garrett, barking orders while keeping everything civilsed.
He didn’t have time to reply, however. Another contact warning came in. Subsurface.
Then a voice cut through — crackling but strong.
“Tangaroa, this is Canterbury, Gallipoli Group inbound from the east. ETA ten minutes. We’re coming in hot.”
Mason recognised that voice!
A ripple went through the CIC.
Rossovich grinned. “Cavalry’s coming.”
Mason didn’t have time to smile at this revelation however, no matter how much he would have wanted to. His eyes were locked on the tactical screen — forty Chinese hulls still closing from the north, fresh missile signatures blooming across the map, and their airpower was just coming into range. Their numbers were heavy. Their timing perfect. They had learned their lessons well.
The allies had survived the first wave, bloody but unbeaten. To Mason’s horror the realisation of the situation had become all too clear.
This was no feint, no random attack. This was an invasion force.
And the Battle of the Bismarck Sea had truly begun.
***
HMAS Vampire – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 05.15LT
Below the surface, where light didn’t reach and death came silently, the Chinese had made their move.
Torpedoes sliced through the deep like cold-blooded sharks — but they’d been fired too early. Overeager. Sloppy. They were learning, yes — but not fast enough. The moment the first Chinese fish hit water, the Allied undersea hunters went to work like wolves scenting blood.
On the command deck of HMAS Vampire, Commander Terry Rothchild was a man on a leash made of rage. Every thud, every muffled boom relayed from the sonar room fed the fire in his heart. Up on the surface, ships were burning, dying, missiles were falling, and his sonar team was giving him a blow-by-blow he couldn’t do a damn thing about — not yet.
He leaned on the railing, headset half-askew, sweat slicking his brow. He looked like a caged animal in navy grey camo fatigues.
“Sonar, Conn! Stop fucking around and find me a target!” he barked. “P-WO, spin up the tubes. I want every bastard loaded. These fuckers die today!”
The command deck shifted slightly with a change in course. The air was dry, metallic, humming with machinery and tension.
“Conn, Sonar! Target track acquired! Bearing zero-eight-seven, depth fifty metres, speed ten knots — it’s a mover.”
Rothchild was already moving.
“Helm, bring her to zero-eight-seven. Quiet turn, keep us clean. P-WO, give me a solution — I want that bastard’s last mistake logged and numbered.”
The contact was a Type-093 Shang-class, according to the computer — one of the newer nuclear attack subs, sleek and quiet, built for hunting. She had likely been waiting here for days, engines at idle, passive sonar open, listening for prey. And she’d nearly gotten away with it.
But Vampire wasn’t just any prey. She was Virginia-class — lean, lethal, and bristling with technology. And now, she had the scent.
“Target locked,” said the P-WO. “Solution is good to go.”
“Well, what are you waiting for, Fire the fucking thing!” Rothchild replied.
“Firing One.”
There was a hiss of compressed air, barely audible over the rumble of the ship’s core systems. The torpedo slipped from its tube into the black, falling silent until it cleared the submarine’s wake. Then, with a growl picked up only by sonar, its engine kicked in. The Mk54 turned smoothly toward its target and lit up the water like an apex predator.
“Fish is active,” the Sonar operator called.
The Type-093 never stood a chance. The Chinese sub tried to run, pinged once, dumped countermeasures — but it was too slow, too loud, too late. The torpedo closed the gap in seconds.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Impact.” The word was calm. Clinical.
A low boom echoed back through the sea, faint but final. The contact dissolved into debris, the sea reclaiming her in a cloud of shattered steel.
Rothchild exhaled through his nose. No smile. No victory cry. Just a nod, and a new order.
“Good kill. Good work people, Helm, keep us moving. Sonar — next.”
For the next four hours, Vampire, the Kiwi Mako, and the USS Missouri hunted as one. Silent predators in the deep, coordinating by encrypted burst transmissions and old-fashioned instinct. Above them, frigates danced across the swells like shepherds, herding sonar contacts toward the waiting teeth below.
Another 093 died — caught in a clever pincer between Mako and Missouri, torn apart before it could fire a shot. Three more SSKs, older and noisier, were flushed out by active sonar and pounded into silence. One tried to surface and was nailed by a torpedo from HMNZS Gisborne, dropped from a Seahawk mid-dip.
By 09:00, the torpedoes had stopped. They weren’t sure they’d gotten them all. No one ever was. But the sea was quiet again. For now.
Rothchild stared at the tactical display, hands braced on the command rail, eyes hard.
“That’s five down,” someone said.
“It’s not enough,” Rothchild muttered. “Not nearly enough, but it’s a start.”
He turned to the periscope, tracking the thunder above. Missiles arcing. Lasers firing. Ships silhouetted in flashes of combat light.
The real storm hadn’t even hit yet, and Vampire was still hungry.
***
HMNZS Canterbury – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 05.37LT
On the bridge of Canterbury, Captain Caleb Rawlinson stood with one eye on the horizon and the other on the oversized brass-rimmed clock mounted above the forward windows. The ship’s bridge was a hive of precision — calm, deliberate, focused — but beneath it all, there was a tension like stretched wire.
Gallipoli might have been the larger vessel, with more firepower and displacement, but without the Commodore present, Rawlinson wore the senior braid. That made him the squadron lead — and right now, he was dragging every ship in the group toward the front at flank speed.
“Hang on, Mal,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re coming, mate.”
Commander Benson turned toward him, brow slightly furrowed. He’d known Rawlinson for a long time, through multiple deployments and exercises and too many close shaves — but he’d never seen him quite like this. He said nothing. Now wasn’t the time.
Beneath their feet, Canterbury surged forward like a predator on the hunt, her wake broad and violent. Spray burst off her flared bow as she tore across the grey-green waters at an unrelenting pace.
“Engineering, Bridge!” Rawlinson called. “Thom, can we push those turbines any harder?”
The reply was immediate. “Bridge, Engineering. Not unless you want to explode, no. We’re redlining already, Boss, I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long — thirty-four-point-five knots and holding.”
Rawlinson glanced at the speed dial. It was pinned past the limit. The Province-class destroyers were not meant to go this fast — but his engineers were making her sing anyway.
“Bridge, CIC,” came the calm voice of Lieutenant Commander Kate Miller over the internal comms. “We have the allied fleet on radar, and are tracking missiles inbound on their position — multiple tracks, sea-skimmers, Mach 4 plus. Range fifty clicks. We’re locked and ready.”
Rawlinson stepped closer to the window, as if he could see them in the distance. “CIC, Bridge. Coordinate with the group. You are cleared to engage. Fire, Kate. Fire everything we’ve got.”
Benson stiffened beside him, eyes locking on the horizon. The radar officers in the command information centre began calling out track numbers. Target IDs. Impact estimates. It was happening again.
Below the windows on the foredeck, Canterbury’s VLS covers snapped open like the petals of a steel flower. A heartbeat later, the first wave of interceptors launched skyward — RIM-162 ESSMs and RIM-174A standard ERAMs screamed from their cells, each one arcing out to meet the incoming threat.
The deck vibrated with controlled violence. The air smelled faintly of ozone and scorched fuel. It was the sound of the Canterbury answering the call — not with fear, but fury.
In the distance, Rawlinson thought he saw faint contrails rising from Gallipoli’s deck. She was firing too. The whole task group was alive and angry.
The Chinese had made their move. Now it was the Alliance’s turn.
***
PLAN Lanzhou, Fleet Flagship – Bismarck Sea. November 17th, 2040 – 05:42LT
Vice Admiral Zhao Heng stood with arms crossed firmly across his chest, gaze fixed on the wraparound tactical display that stretched along the forward edge of the Lanzhou’s Combat Operations Centre. The blue-lit room was cool, sterile — humming with the steady rhythm of a machine designed for conquest.
Yet something was wrong. His confusion palpable, they had trained for this for months, the simulations, the mock battles, the exercises. Everything in his experience told him exactly how the battle should have played out, but the script was wrong.
The enemy was not breaking where they were supposed to.
Zhao’s entire offensive plan — from the opening torpedo strikes to the first missile waves — had been built on months of aggregated data: Alliance responses in the South China Sea, the Celebes Sea, the failed strikes off the coast of Singapore. The Westerners had patterns — timing windows, countermeasure algorithms, predictable prioritisation matrices.
But this time, they were wrong.
A detailed electronic map of the battle space scrolled across the main display, fed by satellite and drone data. Several of the initial impact zones now showed cold. However, too many of their precious YJ-12s and CX-5M supersonics had failed to hit. Intercepted. Jammed. Some even lured away by false targets and mid-spectrum misdirection — before their own ECCM protocols even activated.
“Why are they still alive?” Zhao asked quietly, the impatience and frustration clearly evident in his voice.
Captain Li Yong, commander of the Lanzhou, turned toward him.
“Our submarines performed well, they scored hits on the American carrier. We have also damaged several of their escorts, our missiles have hit even more escorts—”
“But we should have destroyed more of them by now,” Zhao snapped, not raising his voice. “At least. We had flank-on exposure. The window was perfect. Where are their blind spots? Where is the chaos?”
There was none. The Allies were wounded — but they were moving. Coordinated. Reacting with speed and intent that felt… foreign.
“Sir, it’s possible—” began one of the fire control officers.
“It’s not possible—it is,” Zhao said, stepping forward. His tone was sharp but not panicked. “They have changed their posture. This isn’t the same fleet doctrine from Singapore.”
He squinted at the timeline marker along the engagement readout. Forty-seven seconds. That was the new average intercept-to-countermeasure cycle. Almost ten seconds faster than before. Their jamming was hitting mid-arc, disrupting terminal locks. And their lasers — those damned lasers — were performing far better than anticipated.
“They’ve upgraded their targeting AI,” Zhao muttered. “Or… they’ve shared something with the Australians.”
“Orders, Admiral?”
He stared at the screen. The Allies were shifting again. The second carrier, the Tangaroa, was reorienting. Drawing their fire. A feint?
No — a sacrifice. A shield.
He felt it — that cold knot forming in his stomach. The same feeling he’d had in the aftermath of the Luzon Strait losses. The enemy wasn’t just reacting. They were planning. Counter-punching.
He stepped forward to the central command terminal and keyed in the fire code personally.
“Signal the Jiangsu, and Wuhan groups. We launch all ready wings. Full loadout. YJ-97s and CX-22Bs. Wide-angle spread.”
“Targets?”
Zhao’s jaw tensed. “Their cruisers. Bring me the cruisers!”
He leaned in closer, voice low.
“Let’s see how many tricks they have left.”
***
HMNZS Tangaroa – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 05.40LT
“Cavalry’s coming!” Rossovich stated.
“They’re already here… look!’ Mason replied pointing at the tactical display.
All across the battle space, missile track warnings were winking out. The allied fleets were converging, and the tables were turning,
Mason picked up the phone and hit the button for air ops. “Wings, what we have got left on the deck?”
“Not much, we’ve been launching steadily through this whole mess. The air groups are forming up for a strike and the CAP is launching now.”
“Very good, they have a go, keep me informed.” He put the phone down and turned to Rossovich. “Now the real fun begins!”
***
Battle Sector Airspace - Bismarck Sea – November 17th, 2040 06.30LT
They came from the dawn light like ghosts — jagged, angular silhouettes against the amber horizon, their engines leaving contrails that caught the morning sun like war banners unfurling across the sky.
Thirty fighters and EW birds from Tangaroa led the way. Twenty four, F-15N Sea Eagles — in tight, aggressive vics, Their wings loaded with AIM-120 AMRAAM, RAFAEL Python-5 IR missiles, and two Kongsberg JSMs. Their vicious cousins, the six E/A-15N Reapers, came straight up the middle, their wings bristling with pods and payloads of HARMs and Pythons, the quiet hum of electronic warfare already reaching ahead of them like a predator. Each one could smell the blood in the air.
To the east and west similar groups were forming up from HMAS Australia, made up of F-35Cs and the older but still lethal Growlers, and the USS Enterprise, with their own F-35Cs, Super Hornets and Growlers. Tangaroa’s remaining F-35C squadrons were staying with the fleet as aircover.
No. 67 Squadron The Silver Wraiths took point, Ravindra in the lead bird, his Elbit DASH-X helmet visor already painting targets across the battlespace. On either side of their formation was the full complement of twelve F-15Ns from No.72 Squadron The Grey Ghosts and an equal number from No.85 Squadron The Ocean Reapers. The F-15N Sea Eagles of the two attack squadrons, prowled like pitbulls flying with wolves. It was the kind of formation you only saw in war documentaries or recruitment videos.
But this wasn’t a recruitment video. This was the real thing.
In the second seat of Wraith Two-Zero-One, Lieutenant Andy Champorelli was already feeding live jamming cycles through the Tūmatauenga-X interface. The Reaper’s AI was chewing through Chinese targeting data, assigning missile locks to spoof decoys, or just masking the missile locks entirely, and feeding false radar trails back into the ether.
“Wraith Two-Zera-One, this is Skydancer, you have multiple bandits inbound from the north — bearing zero-two-five, at Angels twenty.” came a call from an airborne E-2D Hawkeye from Enterprise, circling high above the combat zone. The information appearing on the glass seconds later, fed by the tactical uplink.
“Copy that, Skydancer, thanks for the heads up.” Ravindra replied coolly. “Wraiths, punch it. Time to earn the name.”
With the code phrase given, the Sea Eagles turned off their EPAWSS and presented themselves as big fat inviting targets — the Reapers on the other hand practically disappeared, unless you were looking right at them.
The Chinese pilots of the PLA-N J-15s and J-35s circling above couldn’t believe their luck. And dove on the supposedly unsuspecting enemy. Then all hell broke loose. From out of nowhere the Australian and American F-35Cs pounced, having waited for just this moment. In the Chinese aircraft missile lock alarms started screaming, anti-collision warnings went off and still all they saw was the twenty four enemy jets, still plodding along like they were out for a Sunday stroll.
AMRAMMs launched from the cover flight slammed into the Chinese aircraft. One by one they fell out of the sky, they never saw the aircraft that killed them,
Then came the order Commander Jacob Te Apiata, CO of The Ocean Reapers had been waiting for.
“Reaper Lead, this is Tangaroa Actual — hostile fleet confirmed. You are weapons free. Repeat — weapons free.”
Te Apiata’s smile was a razor line. "Reaper flight, Fox Three!"
Dozens of the dark stealthy Joint Strike Missiles punched into the sky, forty eight to be exact, each one curling toward a blinking red dot on the tactical feeds. Seconds later, a second volley followed — AGM-158C LRASM anti-ship missiles, sleek and brutal, dropping from the wings of Enterprise’s Super Hornets. They had followed the Sea Eagles in, with malicious intent, masked by their own Growlers.
With their anti-ship payload expended, the Sea Eagles switched their EPAWSS back on and like a switch being flipped began hunting for airborne targets. The Reapers of The Silver Wraiths really went to town then, freed of their cover duty, they rolled over and followed the missiles in, throwing the full weight of their EW and Jamming ability at the Chinese.
From the Chinese fleet commander’s perspective, the horizon just lit up — dozens of sea-skimmers intermittently appearing and disappearing on radar, supported by electronic confusion so dense it might as well have been a wall of static. Their CIWS batteries screamed into motion, but they were aiming blind, panicking, chasing ghosts through an electronic sandstorm.
Back aboard Tangaroa, Mason watched the tactical display feed from Skydancer blossom into motion.
The Sea Eagles were breaking off and re-engaging with terrifying speed. Reapers moved like spiders weaving in and out of the battlespace, their systems dancing across the EW spectrum. Enemy missiles faltered mid-flight. Chinese SAMs misfired or failed to lock. False echoes disguised as fighters soaked up volleys.
Then the first of the joint strike missiles hit home. A Type-055 cruiser took three to the port side — two detonated below the waterline, the third slamming into her bridge tower. The ship folded like a paper crane on fire, secondary explosions rippling through her magazine, her radar mast disintegrating as she rolled.
“Splash one heavy,” called Skydancer, taking up the roll of sports commenter for this bout.
More missiles struck. A Type-076 LHD lost its aft flight deck. A frigate broke in two after a magazine detonation. The Chinese formation, once a perfect chessboard, was coming undone. Five ships lost in the opening volley, the Chinese seemingly defenceless against the electronic warfare.
But they weren’t completely helpless.
Chinese interceptors screamed in from the north — more J-15s and J-35s, with PL-15s on their pylons and kill orders in their HUDs. The Sea Eagles and Lightenings raced headlong to meet them. The dogfight ignited like dry kindling, a tangled web of vapor trails and cannon bursts. The sky turned to fire. Some of the Chinese aircraft went for the enemy, others split off and went after the missiles. A few were even successful, some shotting the missiles down, others failing miserably and choosing to just collide with them instead. It was patriotic, foolish and an awful waste, but it was working, and the Chinese fleet was surviving.
F-15Ns proved their bloodline in the melee above. One pulled a hard cobra turn, flipping vertical and dumping chaff as a missile zipped past, only to swing around and rake its attacker with a perfect Python shot.
The Reapers of the Wraith squadron, also proved their worth, switching back and forth from destroying radar towers and ship masts with AGM-88 HARMs, to knocking enemy aircraft out of the sky with Python missiles of their own.
"Bandit down!" shouted Wraith Two-Zero-Four. "Scratch one for posterity."
But this was far from over.
Back on CNS Lanzhou, the Chinese fleet commander watched the chaos unfold, his expression carved in granite. His battle map was lying to him. His ships were dying faster than the AI predicted. Something wasn’t right. Something had changed.
He slammed his fist down.
"Launch all fighters!" he growled to his XO. "Every bird. Arm them with YJ-21s. It’s time we returned the favour."
And across the deck of the Type-004 carriers, bombers began rolling forward — sleek, angular, dangerous.
They never made it off the deck.
Coming in low and fast behind the giant fleet carrier, their twin General Electric F110-GE-129 turbofan jet engines screaming like a horde of banshees, two F-15Ns of The Grey Ghosts, pulled up just at the last second and raked the deck with 20mm Vulcan cannon fire, before peeling off left and right, the secondary explosions of the heavily armed aircraft rotating on the deck, carving large holes in the surface. The Lanzhou’s CIWS systems tried to track the Sea Eagles, but there was nothing to lock on to. As far as the targeting computers were concerned, the aircraft just simply weren’t there. Several enterprising gunnery officers, attempted to switch to manual firing, but it was too late, the Eagles were gone, and the damage was done.
***
HMNZS Canterbury – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 07.17LT
He could see them on the horizon, so many were burning, but he couldn’t tell the smoke from fire or from missile. On the bridge of Canterbury, Rawlinson felt a surge of relief when he saw the big fleet carrier come into view, with the towering letters of R75 on the island he knew that number well, It was his friend’s ship. For a moment he relaxed. Then he saw the black speck on the skyline.
He couldn’t tell what it was at first, it wasn’t a missile, not fast enough, but it was certainly acting like one. At the last second it tipped over and the realisation hit Rawlinson like a sledgehammer!
“CIC, BRIDGE! P-WO Target that aircraft at zero-three-one!”
But it was too late, the PLA-N J-35 slammed into the forward deck of Tangaroa.
Had they not seen it? Rawlinson asked himself, his guts turning to ice inside him.
***
Shinxon Seven, Lanzhou Air Group – Bismark Sea. November 17th, 2040 07.17LT
He was alone now. His wingman had vanished in a blossom of flame. His radar was blind. His EW suite useless. But he had one missile left… and Tangaroa was in front of him.
His hands didn’t shake. Not even when the warning lights blinked red across his panel. Not even when an F-35 shadowed past him, chasing other prey. Not even when the CIWS opened up and started to find him.
He whispered something — maybe a prayer, maybe a name. Then pulled the stick down hard. He hit the pickle and nothing happened. He tried again still nothing, but the big enemy carrier, was filling up his cockpit screen fast and he closed his eyes.
The aircraft screamed low. A trail of flame. And then — impact.
A hole the size of a house tore open in Tangaroa’s flight deck. Fire roared skyward and the sky, for a moment, went very, very still.