The Beijing conspiracy

CHAPTER 70

O n board the Destiny Jamal was monitoring the police channel and commercial radio. The traffic on the M5 was heavy, although moving freely, but the lead item on the 10 a.m. news bulletin was a sign of things to come. ‘In breaking news there have been reports of an explosion outside the Chinese Consulate in Dunblane Street near Sydney University. As yet there is no information on casualties but police and ambulances are on the way and police are advising motorists to avoid the area around Church Street and Parramatta Road.’ Allah be praised, Jamal thought. Hopefully the casualties would be heavy.

The driver of the second eastbound Hino checked his odometer as he entered the short tunnel that dipped down and then flattened out underneath the Cooks River. He was confident that the truck in front had already passed through on the way to the airport. It was precisely 300 metres to the point where the tunnel crossed under the middle of the river and as the number ‘3’ tumbled into position on the odometer, the driver heard the muffled roar of an explosion in the westbound tunnel next to him. Slamming on the brakes and oblivious to the small car that rammed into the rear of his truck, he raised his fist in defiance, and shouted ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’. In his last act on Earth he pressed the button on the firing mechanism. Two tonnes of ANFO exploded in a deafening roar of flame and smoke. Most of the ferocious blast was directed upward towards the roof of the tunnel, breaching it and sending a plume of debris through the river above. In both of the tunnels the desperate screams of the injured and dying, many with limbs torn from their bodies, could be heard above the roar of water pouring in. Near the exits of the tunnels, drivers and their passengers were abandoning their cars and struggling to escape the rising waters. Many of the victims didn’t make it, pushing against the concrete of the tunnel roof in a desperate search for air.

In the State Crisis Centre, Brigadier Davis, Curtis and Kate watched in dismay as the cameras switched from the shattered Chinese Consulate to the devastation in the flooded tunnels under the Cooks River, then just as quickly, the left-hand screen switched to the short tunnel under the main runway. It was engulfed in flames, flying debris and billowing clouds of black smoke.

The explosion under the runway tunnel rocked the control tower but Mick Hammond’s years of training only took a fraction of a second to kick in.

‘Qantas 12, Sydney Tower, Abort! Abort!’ but his commands came too late. The 747 had settled its nose wheel onto the runway and the Captain had already applied reverse thrust.

‘What the-’ The Captain of Qantas 12 stared in disbelief as the main runway erupted in front of him. He increased the big engines to full emergency reverse thrust and the passengers were thrown forward as the 400-ton aircraft hurtled towards the clouds of smoke. Concrete and shards of steel-reinforcing rods were raining down on the runway.

‘Jesus Christ!’ The Captain swore as a lump of concrete bounced off the hardened windscreen, cracking it from top to bottom.

‘120.’ ‘110.’ The co-pilot kept calling the speed but it was not dropping fast enough and in a moment they disappeared into the boiling black inferno that had engulfed the airstrip from below. The hole in the runway sheared off the bogies under the port wing in an instant and as the Captain felt the big aircraft slew to the left, he instinctively applied opposite rudder and eased the reverse thrust on the port engines, but to no avail. The port wing hit the ground, tearing off the port outer engine and puncturing the wing tanks. The 747, with 458 passengers and crew, careered across the grass verge of the main runway slamming into the Singapore Airlines 747 bound for Heathrow. It was fully laden with fuel.

Kate held her hand to her mouth as she watched the two 747s explode in a ball of fire, the distinctive white kangaroo on the red tailfin protruding from the inferno. A short while later, passengers with their clothes on fire could be seen jumping from one of the rear doors that was over 6 metres above the ground.

Assistant Commissioner Paul Mackey was on the phone to the Police Operations Centre. ‘Close all tunnels in the Sydney metropolitan area,’ he ordered quietly.

Brigadier Davis was on another phone talking to General Howard, the Commander of Special Forces whose command post did not have the images from the RTA cameras. The Minister’s advisor tapped the Brigadier on the shoulder.

‘The Minister wants those helicopters in the air – now!’

‘One more word, Jensen, and I’ll fucking deck you,’ Davis replied, a cold anger in his blue eyes. ‘Not you, Sir,’ he said calmly, resuming his conversation with the Special Forces Commander. ‘From what I’ve got on the monitors here, they’ve attacked the east- and west-bound M5 tunnels under the Cooks River and under the main airport runway. A 747 was landing at the time and it’s collided with another one on the ground. The police are closing all tunnels in the metropolitan area but their greatest concerns are the tunnels under the harbour. You should also be aware that an 80,000-tonne oil tanker is in the harbour en route to Gore Cove. You’ll get a message down the command chain from the Minister to scramble whatever you’ve got.’

‘Thanks to the fucking Minister’s office, not much, and I doubt we can get our hands on more than three or four Blackhawks,’ General Howard replied bluntly. ‘The Tigers are doing some minor maintenance but I’ll put a cracker up their arse and see what we can get airborne. I’m also scrambling two RHIBs out of Waterhen,’ the General said, ‘so between us and the NSW Police, the harbour will be as safe as we can make it, although I’d like a lot more firepower and those Tigers might have been handy.’

Both General Howard and Brigadier Davis knew that the Blackhawk helicopters were only lightly armed with 7.62mm machine guns, and the RHIBs – the sinister, black Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats – each carrying ten Special Forces troops were also lightly armed. Hopefully it would be enough, but the attack seemed to be thoroughly planned. Without the Tigers they might be in trouble, Davis thought, as he watched the images of the two burning 747s on one screen and the ambulances and fire engines struggling to get through the traffic chaos around the eastern and western entrances to the tunnels, on the other.

‘I think we should close the harbour,’ Assistant Commissioner Mackey said to the Police Minister after the Brigadier had briefed them both.

The Minister looked uncertain.

‘And cancel the ferry services?’ the Minister’s advisor asked.

‘We don’t know the extent of this attack yet,’ Mackey replied, and ‘if the bridge is also a target the ferries might be an unnecessary complication,’ he said, giving the ministerial advisor the benefit of a steely glare.

On board the Destiny, Jamal’s monitoring of the police and Harbour Control channels was interrupted. He nodded in satisfaction as another series of beeps on his mobile phone announced that the two remaining trucks were on their way to their detonation points.

Earlier in the day, Anthea Black had stood in front of the mirror on the back of her wardrobe door. She was tall and slim, her jeans fitted snugly and she’d put on the white cotton shirt Murray liked. ‘Not bad for an old girl,’ she said to herself. She had turned thirty-four a month ago. Anthea had looked up the City Rail timetable on the internet and the 9.47 out of Strathfield would get them to Milsons Point just after 10 a.m. From the train station, it was a short walk down to Luna Park and hopefully the kids would’ve had nearly enough by the time Murray joined them for lunch. Anthea shook her head and smiled. Who am I kidding? she thought. She’d already suggested to Louise that they postpone Luna Park to another day because of the rain. ‘The weatherman said the showers will ease later in the day,’ Louise had said. Eight going on forty-eight, Anthea had thought.

‘Come on, birthday girl, are you nearly ready?’

‘Coming, Mummy, I’m just doing my hair the way Daddy likes it.’

‘The boys, dressed in their yellow raincoats and hats, pulled faces in the direction of their sister’s room.

Bob Muscat and Murray Black stared at the scenes shot from outside the Chinese Consulate that were being relayed to the Harbour Control Tower. Firemen were desperately trying to bring the blazing building under control but a burst gas main was fuelling the fire, while ambulances were rushing the wounded and dying to the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital a short distance away. There, as at other hospitals around the city, the medical staff were on full alert. A second camera was relaying images of the carnage at the airport. The intense heat from the burning aviation fuel was preventing the fire trucks from getting as close as they wanted to, and despite massive amounts of foam being sprayed over the burning wreckage, the fire was still out of control. Murray Black’s thoughts for those still inside the aircraft were interrupted by the ring of the red phone that connected the Harbour Control Tower with the State Crisis Centre.

‘Paul Mackey here, Murray; the harbour is to be closed to all shipping until we get a better handle on the extent of this attack. What have we got moving at the moment?’

‘The Ocean Venturer is abeam Fort Denison en route to Gore Cove,’ Murray said. ‘A big tanker can’t be stopped so we’ll have to let her berth. The remaining traffic is the Jerusalem Bay, a small container vessel already in the Eastern Channel and two tugs, the Montgomery and the Wavell, just astern of her. I can turn the tugs around easily enough but at best I can only hold the Jerusalem Bay where she is.’

‘Thanks, get her to stop and let me know if there’s a problem.’

‘Understood, Paul. I’ll get her to drop anchor in the channel.’ Murray Black put down the phone and brought Bob Muscat up to date.

As he reached for the Channel 13 mike, Murray Black could see first one, then another RHIB tear out of HMAS Waterhen just to the west of the Harbour Bridge. Commandos armed with light calibre weapons, including a MAG-58 machine gun mounted in the bows, clung grimly to the safety ropes. The boats were powered by twin Mercury 250 outboard motors, reaching well over 50 knots; their blunt bows rose off the choppy harbour before crashing back on to the surface, foaming spray exploding either side.

‘All Ships. All Ships. All Ships. This is Sydney Harbour Control. Port Jackson from the Parramatta River in the west to Line Zulu in the east is closed until further notice. There is to be no, repeat no maritime movement of any description without the express authority of Harbour Control. Ocean Venturer you’re exempt. Proceed to Gore Cove, acknowledge.’

Captain Svenson and the pilot on the bridge of the Ocean Venturer exchanged glances.

‘Very odd,’ the captain said, looking back towards the Jerusalem Bay and the two big tugs following her. ‘I wonder why they’re closing the harbour?’

‘Not sure,’ the pilot replied, ‘but we should be thankful they don’t want us to try and stop.’ The distance required to stop a fully laden tanker of this size at full speed was measured in nautical miles, and even at slow speeds, she couldn’t be stopped quickly.

Captain Svenson nodded to the First Mate, who reached for the radio mike and transmitted the response.

‘This is the Ocean Venturer, received and will comply.’

The only other person on the bridge was the helmsman, Mussaid ibn Khashoggi, who maintained his inscrutable expression as he looked towards Kirribilli Point. When they were abeam of the Prime Minister’s residence coming up on the starboard side, he would act. Keeping one hand on the helm, he felt for the. 380 Beretta pistol in the pocket of his dark blue overalls.

‘Romeo, Ocean Venturer, out to you,’ Murray replied. ‘ Jerusalem Bay, you’re to go astern immediately and drop anchor in your present position, acknowledge.’

Murray Black lifted his binoculars and focused them on the bridge of the Jerusalem Bay as he waited impatiently for an answer. The cargo deck was packed to capacity with 10-tonne containers.

‘Might be fairer to hold the tugs off Balmoral?’ Bob ventured. ‘It’s still bloody rough outside the Heads.’

Murray Black nodded, his attention still on the Jerusalem Bay. The container vessel was now abeam of Clarke Island.

‘ Jerusalem Bay, this is Harbour Control, acknowledge my last transmission.’

Murray Black’s eyes narrowed; something was not right. The Jerusalem Bay was silent and she kept coming.

Bob Muscat raised his binoculars to the west. A fishing boat, the Destiny, was powering past Darling Harbour towards the bridge.

‘ Jerusalem Bay. Jerusalem Bay! This is Sydney Ports. You’re to go astern and drop anchor where you are and await further instructions. Acknowledge!’ Murray Black’s voice held a note of urgency as he let go of the transmit button.

‘Don’t stand on the seat, sweetheart. People have to sit there,’ Anthea Black said to her daughter as the 9.47 from Strathfield arrived at Town Hall station in the city.

‘Harbour Control, this is the Jerusalem Bay, can you read me, over?’

‘About bloody time,’ Murray Black muttered as he pressed the transmit button on his radio mike.

‘She’s speeding up,’ Muscat observed, as he watched the container ship through his binoculars, the Destiny momentarily forgotten.

‘My apologies, Harbour Control, we’ve been having trouble with our radios. Could you say again?’

The captain of the Jerusalem Bay had a thick, Middle Eastern accent, something that would not normally have bothered Murray except that his gut feeling that something was amiss on the Jerusalem Bay was getting stronger. As he focused his binoculars past the ship’s stern he realised that Bob Muscat was right. The wake turbulence behind the container ship was increasing alarmingly and she was now headed for Fort Denison. If she passed the fort Murray knew that it would be impossible to anchor her before she reached the bridge.

‘The port is now closed to all traffic. You are to go astern immediately, drop anchor and await further instructions. Acknowledge and comply.’

‘The two tugs have speeded up as well,’ Bob said, still sweeping the harbour with his binoculars, ‘and there’s a fishing vessel approaching the bridge from the west,’ he added. The Destiny was moving out from the entrance to Darling Harbour. ‘She’s got to be doing about 12 knots as well. What the bloody hell’s going on, Murray?’ Harbour speed limits were strictly enforced and when they were exceeded the culprits were almost always pleasure craft operators. Commercial operators were well aware of the heavy penalties and breaches by them were very rare.

‘I’ve got a nasty feeling about this, Bob,’ Murray said, glancing at the images of the blazing 747s before refocusing on the bridge of the Jerusalem Bay.

‘Harbour Control, this is the Jerusalem Bay, we have a very sick crewman on board with acute appendicitis. Request permission to continue on course.’

Murray Black shook his head. ‘I’m not buying that, Bob. Their radio was working perfectly in the approach to the Heads. If he’s that sick they would have radioed ahead hours ago.’

Muscat nodded grimly. ‘I agree, the police will need to board her.’

‘It’ll have to be the military, she’s too high for the police to board while she’s underway.’ Murray Black reached for the direct line to the State Crisis Centre.

At the Army’s big military base at Holsworthy, 40 kilometres to the west of the city, the commandos were working furiously to try and reverse a readiness state that had allowed them leeway to train on the ranges adjacent to the base. Without any warning, ‘four hours notice to move’ had suddenly dropped to ‘move now!’. Normal activities had been cancelled and with the professionalism for which they were renowned they had managed to assemble their personnel, issue live ammunition and get three of their big Blackhawk helicopters airborne, each carrying ten commandos. Over at Luscombe Field the aviation mechanics were working as fast as safety would allow to get the two Tiger armed reconnaissance helicopters they’d been maintaining back on line, and the soldiers were racing against time to configure the gun turrets with 30mm rounds and 68mm rockets.

The pilot of the lead Blackhawk scanned the harbour ahead as the three aircraft powered towards the city. They were staying low, just above the water, and at 190 knots the airspeed indicator was nudging into the red. The co-pilot turned back towards Major Gould, the commander of Team Delta, who was still finalising his plans and speaking on another frequency to the section commanders in the other two aircraft.

‘Eagle is trying to contact you on Channel 3,’ the co-pilot said.

Gould acknowledged the message with a double squelch on the internal mike and he switched channels.

‘Sunray Delta over.’

‘Good morning, this is Eagle.’ Major Gould didn’t need the General’s call sign. He would have recognised the deep modulated tones of his commander anywhere, not to mention the eccentricity of General Howard’s radio procedures. No matter what the crisis, General Howard always managed to sound as if he was contemplating a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park.

‘In addition to escorting the Ocean Venturer to her berth at Gore Cove we have another small problem.’

Major Gould grinned. General Howard’s definition of small problems invariably meant you were about to be issued with a very large shit sandwich.

‘There’s been a slight change of plans. The Jerusalem Bay is being difficult. She’s refusing to comply with the Port Authority’s orders to drop anchor and is still heading up the harbour, just reported passing Clarke Island. Board her and, short of garroting the captain and his miserable crew, persuade the little pricks to comply. They’re claiming they’ve got a sick crewman onboard but Harbour Control’s not buying that and neither am I. And be careful, the way this morning’s shaping up, they may not be all they seem.’

‘Roger Eagle, out to you. Blackhawk 02, Blackhawk 03, proceed with the escort of the Ocean Venturer and take up your positions on the port and starboard side of the bridge. I’ll deal with the cargo ship.’

The two Blackhawks acknowledged the altered plan as all three choppers climbed to get over the Harbour Bridge. The lead Blackhawk and Major Gould’s men veered to the south, using the Opera House for cover as they lined up for a risky fast roping drop onto the decks of the Jerusalem Bay. The other two Blackhawks vectored on towards the big tanker that was now halfway between Bradley’s Head and Kirribilli Point, 2 kilometres from the bridge.

In the State Crisis Centre, Curtis and Kate were looking at the left-hand plasma screen which had been switched to track the big tanker and the Jerusalem Bay. The Destiny was lurking behind the northern lee of Fort Denison.

‘As well as the tunnels, I think we should also shut down the bridge and the trains,’ Assistant Commissioner Mackey said to the Minister for Transport, who had arrived with his advisor in tow.

‘All of them?’ the Minister asked.

‘Certainly those trains that are running in the city.’

‘That will effectively shut down the entire network across every electorate,’ the Transport Minister’s advisor warned.

‘Trains are not my long suit, Minister,’ Brigadier Davis interjected, ignoring the political advisor, ‘but let me give you a feel for what’s going on here. We’ve been attacked in three separate locations. As yet we don’t know for sure that it’s Khalid Kadeer, but like the attacks on September 11, these have got Kadeer’s stamp of careful planning all over them. There’s no guarantee this operation is over or that it won’t include a subway attack along the lines of the one in London. We’re talking about the protection of people’s lives and if closing the network under the city means the rest of it comes to a halt, I think people in the other electorates will understand.’

As the 9.47 from Strathfield pulled into Wynyard, the train driver looked at his watch, still angry over the bawling out he’d received from his supervisor earlier in the day. He’d tried to explain that on the day in question there’d been a succession of red lights all the way from Parramatta to Hornsby. To make up lost time he would have had to exceed the speed limits. ‘I don’t give a shit,’ his supervisor had said, his own job on the line. ‘Get it through your thick head that we run on time.’

The officer on duty at Wynard leaned into the microphone.

‘The train on Platform One goes to Hornsby. The next stop is Milsons Point. Alight at Milsons Point for Luna Park.’

The driver of the northbound Hino could hear the sirens as he left Woolloomooloo and headed towards the western harbour tunnel. Jamal had ensured that the detonation point for both 5-ton trucks was towards the southern ends of both tunnels, so that they did not interfere with the explosives on top of the tunnels at the northern end.

Across on the north shore, the other driver, Abdul Azzam, could hear the sirens too. He calmly drove down the main approaches that led to the Bridge and the eastern harbour tunnel, smiling as he contemplated the carnage he was about to inflict on those who had taunted him. Even though it was past peak hour the traffic was still heavy. Abdul’s one regret was that the infidel’s buses didn’t use the tunnel.

‘ Allahu Akbar. God is Great,’ he whispered, touching the detonator in his pocket. The entrance to the tunnel under the harbour symbolised his entry into heaven and it had just come into view. Down on the harbour, he could see the huge bow of the Ocean Venturer but the sirens behind him were getting closer and, as he glanced in his rear-view mirror, he began to worry that he might not make it to the tunnel.

As the police car sped past with its siren wailing and blue lights flashing, the officer in the passenger seat signalled angrily for Azzam to pull over. Two hundred metres further on, the police car slewed to a halt across the entrance to the tunnel. An officer leapt out and held up his hand. The traffic in front of Azzam began to slow down.

Murray Black dialled Anthea’s mobile. He’d left two messages asking her to ring him but for some reason she hadn’t answered.

‘Hi. You’ve reached Anthea Black. If you leave a nice message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

‘Sweetheart, please call me when you get this,’ Murray said. There’d been no answer at home and he wondered if she’d been listening to the news. ‘I need to know you’re all okay.’ Murray put his mobile back on his desk beside the photograph, reassuring himself that she’d just forgotten to turn her mobile on. He turned back to the Jerusalem Bay. The two tugs were still ploughing along behind her and he reached for the radio again.

On the Montgomery, Malik al-Falid directed his helmsman to hold course behind the Jerusalem Bay as three Blackhawk helicopters appeared over the top of the Bridge. One helicopter disappeared towards the city and Malik watched as the other two took up positions protecting the Ocean Venturer. Through his binoculars he could see the infidel’s soldiers sitting in the back and in the side seats. ‘SAS or perhaps commandos,’ Malik mused. With four missiles they could only afford one miss. He reached for the microphone dangling above him.

‘ Wavell, this is Montgomery, take out the helicopter on the starboard side of the tanker, we’ll take out the one on the port side,’ he said, nodding to the missile teams who were out of sight in the aft area of the Montgomery’s bridge. The time for subterfuge had passed.

‘It will be a pleasure, Montgomery. Allahu Akbar!’

Murray Black swung his binoculars onto the Montgomery and then the Wavell. He stared in disbelief as men dressed in black suddenly tumbled from the tugboats’ bridges. On each of the powerful tugs crew members raced forward and tossed tarpaulins to one side to reveal. 50 calibre heavy machine guns mounted in the bows. On either side of each bridge crew members were hoisting missile launchers onto their shoulders and bracing themselves against the heavy steel gunwales as the tugs ploughed on towards the city. The missiles were instantly recognisable.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Murray muttered, reaching for the red phone to the State Crisis Centre.

‘Davis.’

‘Murray Black, Tony, Harbour Control. Get your cameras on the tugs. They’re both armed with. 50 calibre machine guns in the bows and I’ve counted four stinger missile teams, two on each tug. Montgomery is maintaining a westerly course behind the Jerusalem Bay but the Wavell is altering course towards the northern side of the harbour and is heading towards the Ocean Venturer.’

‘Thanks, keep me posted,’ Davis replied evenly, as he reached for the direct line to the Special Forces Headquarters.

The orange sensor light flashed urgently on the instrument panel in front of the pilots in Blackhawk 02 and an alarm shrieked in their headphones.

‘Missile inbound! Bearing 1800!’ the co-pilot yelled and instinctively the young captain at the controls of the Blackhawk hauled on the collective and banked the aircraft in a sharp turn, turning the heat of the engine cowlings away from the missile. The warning and the manoeuvre had been carried out quickly and calmly by one of the world’s best trained pilots but it was too late. Travelling at over 1500 kilometres an hour, the deadly missile slammed into the side of the helicopter’s engine cowling.

Murray Black watched in horror as the Blackhawk disintegrated in an explosion of flame and smoke. As if in slow motion, the giant blades separated from the aircraft, lifting into the air before falling into the sea, narrowly missing one of the RHIBs escorting the Ocean Venturer. The tail rotor flew across the harbour, disappearing into a luxury penthouse not far from the Prime Minister’s residence. The fuselage broke into three jagged pieces. The bodies of the commandos and the pilots fell into the harbour as first one RHIB and then the other broke from their escort positions. From the decks of the Montgomery and the Wavell, cheers of celebration and defiance could be heard across the harbour, accompanied by shouts of ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great!’

The nose on Blackhawk 03 tilted forward sharply as the pilot powered forward in search of cover. As the aircraft banked and disappeared from view behind one of the northern pylons of the bridge, the missile warning alarm on the instrument panel lit up. Suddenly deprived of the heat signature of the helicopter the guidance system on the stinger automatically searched for another target. Having given priority to the harbour tunnels, more police were now racing to close the bridge and although they’d successfully shut down the myriad of lanes from the city side, traffic was still coming on to the bridge from the north. Murray Black watched helplessly from the control tower high above the harbour. The deadly smoke trail left by the missile’s rocket motors was surreally graceful. The missile curved to the south as its guidance systems locked on to the exhaust of a 30-ton semi-trailer. The guidance computer onboard the missile wasn’t about to make any subtle distinctions over heat signatures and the huge truck exploded in a flash of flame and smoke. A bus and several cars travelling either side of the semi collided and veered across four lanes of the Bridge.

‘Harbour Control, this is the pilot on board Ocean Venturer, a Blackhawk has just exploded on the port side!’ Not sure what was happening, both the pilot and the captain of the Ocean Venturer were acutely aware that they were standing on over 60,000 tonnes of light crude.

‘Romeo, Ocean Venturer, ’ Murray replied calmly. ‘The harbour is under terrorist attack. As yet we’re not sure what the main target is but maintain your present course.’

Ibn Khashoggi again felt for the cold steel of his Beretta.

Abdul Azzam judged that there might just be enough room to get past the front of the police car and he floored the accelerator. Veering around the slowing traffic, he raced for the gap between the police car and the tunnel wall, aiming at the policeman waving frantically for him to stop. Abdul said a silent prayer to Allah as the policeman standing in the middle of the gap stopped waving and drew his pistol. Sixty metres, 40 metres – his jaw was set as the truck gathered speed down the ramp. Two bullets whistled past the truck and then the left side of the windscreen shattered as one of the policeman’s bullets found its mark. Two more shots ricocheted off the top of the cabin roof as Azzam held his nerve, the detonator in his right hand. The policeman was desperately loading another magazine and the side window of Abdul’s truck shattered as his partner opened fire, but in an instant the speeding truck was on them both. The heavy bumper struck the front fender of the police car, spinning it in a grinding crunch and a shower of sparks, killing one of the policemen instantly. The truck was now up on two wheels and Azzam fought desperately to bring it under control. He braked, bounced off the wall and fishtailed down the long ramp towards the bottom of the harbour tunnel and the heavy traffic ahead. Coming the other way in the western tunnel, the driver of the other truck was closing on his detonation point.

The earlier attacks were being covered live on the Hino’s radio, but suddenly the broadcast was interrupted. ‘This is a message from the Sydney Harbour Tunnel Authority. We are closing both tunnels. All vehicles are to clear the tunnels as soon as possible.’

Azzam once again put his hand on the detonator as he approached the southern end. ‘You are too late, far too late,’ he said, and as his brothers had done before him, he raised his fist in defiance.

‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ he screamed. Ten kilograms of plastic explosive detonated nearly 2 tonnes of ammonium nitrate and the heavy steel casing directed the massive blast towards the roof of the tunnel.

In the control tower Murray Black and Bob Muscat were watching the tugs and the Jerusalem Bay and neither noticed the stubby plume of dirty seawater, carrying rocks, concrete and steel, rise only a metre or so above the harbour; nor did they notice a second plume moments later. The twin plumes of boiling water subsided, leaving two widening circles of oily foam on the surface of the rain-lashed harbour, belying the death and devastation below. Thousands of tons of water were pouring through the holes torn in the tunnel casings. As black smoke was forced out of the ends of both tunnels, the fires in the burning vehicles, along with the screams of the dying were slowly extinguished, replaced with the sound of the sea splashing eerily against the tunnel walls.

As the Ocean Venturer reached abeam the Prime Minister’s residence on the end of Kirribilli Point, Mussaid ibn Khashoggi kept one hand on the helm and took out his Beretta with the other.

The blast was deafening. The pilot collapsed onto the steel deck, blood spurting from his neck. Khashoggi fired again and the First Mate collapsed beside the pilot. The Saudi helmsman calmly turned his pistol on the Captain and fired twice more. Captain Arne Svenson was dead before he hit the deck, a look of chilling understanding in his eyes.

Khashoggi moved the big throttles forward to full ahead. The engine on the Ocean Venturer was the size of a small building and weighed over 2000 tonnes. She only had ten cylinders but each of them was the size of a household water tank and the chief engineer looked up in alarm as the electronic telegraph suddenly registered maximum revolutions. He reached for the microphone dangling above him in the control room.

‘Bridge, this is the engine room.’

Locking the rear access bulkhead, Khashoggi ignored the call from the engine room and the increasingly urgent calls from the tug captain of the Wilberforce. With override activated and control of the engines transferred to the bridge, 90,000 horsepower turned the massive 304 tonne crankshaft ever more quickly. Deep below the surface the Ocean Venturer’s huge propeller thumped in ever-increasing revolutions. Khashoggi swung the small, stainless steel helm hard to port, transmitting 10 tonnes of hydraulic pressure to the big rudder. For a while, nothing happened, then degree by degree, the bow began to turn towards the city and the pylons on the southern shoreline. Mussaid ibn Khashoggi raised his fist. ‘ Allahu Akbar! God is great! God is great!’

‘Where are we, Mummy?’ Louise asked.

‘Wynyard, sweetheart. We get out at the next stop which is Milsons Point and guess what?’ Anthea said, adjusting the yellow hat that had slipped over Matthew’s eyes. ‘We get to go over the big bridge!’

The twins’ eyes widened as they looked at each other in delight, big smiles on their little faces.

General Howard weighed up his options. To use the lightly armed Blackhawk behind the pylon against the tugboats armed with stingers would be the modern equivalent of the Charge of the Light Brigade, but it was looking more and more as if the Jerusalem Bay was part of the plan. If Major Gould and his men were to have any chance of getting onboard, the tugs would have to be distracted. Whoever was behind this was a brilliant military planner, Howard thought grudgingly. If only he’d had the Tigers on line they could have engaged the tugs with missiles and heavy cannon. ‘Fucking Minister. Fucking minders,’ the General muttered as he prepared to issue fresh orders to the commandos in the powerful boats searching for life among the debris of the downed Blackhawk. General Howard reached for the radio handset.

‘Team Charlie, this is Eagle, over.’

‘Sunray Charlie, over.’

‘This isn’t going to be a picnic but I want you to distract those tugs and cover Team Delta for their assault on to the container ship, over.’

‘Sunray Charlie, Roger, over.’

‘Sunray Delta, copied, H-Hour in two, over.’ Major Gould and his men on Blackhawk 01 were making final preparations for a fast rope assault, hovering behind the sails of the Opera House just above the water in Sydney Cove.

‘Eagle, good luck, out.’

The General let out a deep breath. There was only one thing he hated more than not being in the middle of the action and that was sending his troops in to do a task that they weren’t properly equipped for.

Captain Jeffery was in command of the two RHIBs and he didn’t hesitate. He was angered by the loss of his mates in the Blackhawk and he’d hoped to find some of them alive, but the mission came first and he knew the dead and dying in the water would have it no other way. The Jerusalem Bay had just passed Fort Denison and in another few minutes she would reach the Opera House. Jeffery scanned the harbour with his binoculars. The rain was still coming down but beyond the Naval Base he could make out the dark shapes of the big tugs charging towards them. Jefferey called his second-in-command in the other RHIB.

‘Charlie 2, this is Charlie 1, I’ll take the tug on the right, you take the one on the left,’

‘Charlie 2, Roger, over.’

‘Charlie 1, Go Go Go!’

The RHIBs were capable of a staggering 60 knots and with the outboards screaming, the bow gunners hung on and opened fire on the tugs with their 7.62mm MAG-58 machine guns. They might as well have been firing at two charging elephants with a pop-gun.

Dozens of terrified residents in apartments in Kirribilli took cover on their floors as the bow gunners onboard the Montgomery and the Wavell returned fire. The sound of the heavier and far more stable . 50 calibre machine guns was unmistakable, but Malik and his terrorists had an even bigger shock in store for the commandos. White-faced security guards at the Prime Minister’s and the Governor-General’s residences on Kirribilli Point crouched behind the biggest trees they could find. Dealing with unarmed protestors climbing onto roofs with banners was one thing; their training had not equipped them for this.

With the tugs distracted Major Gould didn’t wait any longer.

‘Go, go, go!’

The pilot powered Blackhawk 01 out from behind the Opera House, skimming the water and keeping the Jerusalem Bay between him and the tugs. At the last moment the commandos were crunched into their seats as the pilot shot the aircraft skywards over the container ship’s bow, flaring and coming to a hover above the containers behind the foremast.

Major Gould grabbed the m-biter on his fast rope and leapt out of the helicopter, leading the rest of the commandos onto the containers nearly 6 metres below. The terrorists on the Jerusalem Bay opened fire from the bridge and two commandos fell from their ropes, their bodies bouncing off the containers into the harbour. The commandos who made it to the top of the containers raced forward, returning fire with Heckler and Koch 9mm sub-machine guns.

‘What the fuck…’ The captain of the Wilberforce swore as the massive tanker veered to port, away from the westerly course that would take them clear of the gunfire on the harbour and to Gore Cove.

‘Pilot aboard the Ocean Venturer, this is Wilberforce, over.

‘Pilot, this is Wilberforce, do your read me, over?’ the captain of the Wilberforce asked urgently. There’d been no response to his query about gunfire on the bridge and if the tanker continued to turn it would eventually ground on the southern shore. For a tug captain to take over the pilot’s control of a vessel in the harbour was unprecedented and it could cost him his ticket, but Captain ‘Blue’ Gilchrist had spent over twenty years on tugs and he’d never been involved in anything like this. He didn’t hesitate.

‘ Woolwich, Waverton, Werombi, this is Wilberforce, am assuming command from the pilot,’ Blue said calmly. He eased the throttles forward slowly to avoid ramming the big tyres on the tug’s bow into the side of the turning tanker. The rain was heavier now, sheeting against the tug’s windscreen and hissing onto the wind-whipped water. Blue Gilchrist applied maximum power and the twin 2500 hp Daihatsu diesels responded immediately.

‘Give me full reverse on the starboard quarter, Waverton,’ Gilchrist said.

‘ Waverton, romeo.’ The young captain on the Waverton had only been certified the week before, and he was rattled by the downing of the Blackhawk and the carnage on the Bridge. As he pulled the steering joystick to the rear, the young captain pushed the Waverton’s twin throttle levers too far forward. The engines responded instantly and beneath the big tug, the propellers that were surrounded by thick bronze casings spun through 180 degrees in an instant. The Waverton surged away from the tanker and the young captain realised his mistake. With a breaking strain of over 170 tonnes, the state-of-the-art nylon hawser was twice as thick as a man’s arm but as the momentum of the powerful tug met the immoveable momentum of the massive tanker turning in the opposite direction, the hawser snapped like a piece of cotton and whipped back with the force of an artillery shell leaving the barrel of a gun. The crewman on the foredeck had no chance. He was decapitated, his head making a ghastly bloodstained arc over the Waverton’s bridge. The 80,000-ton tanker, its engines approaching full revolutions, kept turning towards the southern shore.

As the 9.47 from Strathfield climbed out of the subway under Sydney, the train driver could see a red light just past the tunnel exit. The track ahead looked clear. Still angry over his supervisor’s stinging rebuke, the driver slowed the train but he continued across the Bridge towards Milsons Point on the far side.

‘Shall we call Daddy and wave to him?’ Anthea asked. Louise’s and the boys’ eyes lit up. Surprised to find four messages waiting for her Anthea pressed the speed dial for Murray.

‘Where are you?’ Murray demanded.

‘On the train, darling, what’s wrong?’

‘Where’s the train!’

‘Just coming out of the tunnel on to the Bridge, why?’ Anthea asked, bewildered by the tone of her normally calm husband.

‘Can we speak to Daddy? Can we speak to Daddy!’ the twins demanded.

Murray looked across to the Bridge, horrified by the sight of train carriages coming slowly out of the tunnel. al-Falid’s man standing above the Jeffrey Street Wharf had checked and double-checked the compass bearing until he could picture the imaginary line in his sleep. The Western Tunnel had been laid on a bearing of 178 degrees magnetic, and the ‘line’ ran through the right-hand corner of a bus shelter near the harbour’s edge and across to a point on the Cahill Expressway, near where the expressway turned towards the Conservatorium of Music. The man waited until the centre of the turning tanker crossed his imaginary line and he pressed the green call button on his mobile. The mobile phone strapped to the pier beneath the Jeffrey Street Wharf at the bottom of the hill rang just once. The detonators ignited the detonation cord that ran across the bottom of the harbour towards the lethal cylinders on top of the tunnels.

Seconds later, all ten cylinders exploded in a muffled roar and a plume of foaming water shot up the starboard side of the tanker, like an anti-submarine depth charge. Only five of the cylinders were directly underneath the turning tanker’s keel but the clearance was less than a metre, and it was enough. The blast ripped a jagged hole in the Ocean Venturer’s outer hull.

Had it not been for a warning light flashing on the console in front of him, Khashoggi would not have even noticed the blast. ‘Allah be praised,’ he muttered. Several of the compartments that were designed to protect the environment from an oil spill were being flooded with seawater. With a full cargo of crude on board, this flooding would be enough to ground the tanker under the bridge, sealing the harbour like a cork in a bottle.

Curtis O’Connor and Brigadier Davis exchanged glances as the camera on the roof of one of the city’s tallest buildings showed a wide shot of the harbour. At the top left of the screen, the tanker was still turning, the bow passing under the bridge at an oblique angle. At the bottom right of the screen, the Jerusalem Bay was almost abeam the Opera House, and there were several small black figures running across the top of the containers on the foredeck. In the middle of the screen, a fishing boat had just left Fort Denison where she appeared to have been sheltering from the firing. The Destiny was now heading west towards the tanker at full speed.

Davis reached again for the direct line to General Howard’s Special Forces Headquarters a short distance away.

‘I know you’ve got your hands full at present, General,’ he said, ‘but a large fishing boat’s just broken out from behind Fort Denison and she’s headed straight for the tanker.’

‘Not exactly a good news day,’ Howard grunted as he hung up the phone and reached for the radio.

‘Tiger 01, this is Eagle, are you airborne yet, over?’

‘Tiger 01, negative, loading ammunition, over.’

‘As soon as you are, contact me on this frequency, out.’

‘Fuck,’ Howard muttered. Well, if they couldn’t do anything about the tanker, at least they might be able to stop the Jerusalem Bay.

With the Destiny ’s big diesel engine thundering beneath him, Jamal centred the laser beams on a point about 2 metres above the water line. As the two red dots came together on his computer screen he fired the port anti-armour rocket and then the starboard one. The first rocket breached the outer hull of the Ocean Venturer and exploded against the inner hull, a metre further in. The second rocket exploded as it breached the inner hull. The weight of millions of litres of oil in the amidships tank was immense and a powerful geyser of Kuwaiti crude shot out of the side of the tanker, spewing on to the surface of the harbour, blackening the white caps.

Further down the harbour, Captain Jeffery and his commandos onboard the flying RHIBs had their hands full as they pressed on towards the tugs. Both of the RHIBs still had more than 300 metres to cover and Malik al-Falid had one more weapon.

Malik ducked behind the control console as a burst of machinegun fire ricocheted off the side of the steel bridge of the Montgomery. He nodded to the crew member crouching in the starboard wing with the rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

‘The closer the better; wait till they get within 100 metres then hit them,’ he commanded quietly.

The young Palestinian cell member raised the RPG-7 grenade launcher to his shoulder. The return fire from the commandos was continuous but they were struggling to get accuracy as the big RHIBs bounced off the water at high speed.

Steadying himself against the bridge, the Palestinian calmly aimed just in front of the bow and fired. Seconds later, the anti-tank grenade exploded with a deafening roar against the hull, killing three of the infidels instantly. As the shattered RHIB fell back to the choppy water, the big outboards were still screaming at full power and the commandos’ boat was driven under the surface in a ball of exploding foam.

‘ Allahu Akbar! God is Great!’ Malik clenched his fist as he drove the big tug at the men struggling in the water.

Fifty metres. Forty metres. Jamal raised his fist in defiance as he adjusted his course to avoid the geyser of oil spewing from the side of the tanker. Willing the Destiny to go even faster, he aimed the heavy boat towards the breach in the tanker’s hull.

With a cry of ‘ Allahu Akbar!’ and confident of his place in heaven, Jamal calmly pressed the detonator moments before the bow of the Destiny slammed into the side of the stricken tanker. The shaped charge penetrated deep into the bowels of the Ocean Venturer and exploded in a deafening roar. Thick, black smoke and fuel-fired flames shot 70 metres into the air, engulfing the roadway above and the emergency crews who were working desperately to save those who’d been hit in the earlier missile strike. As the intense heat from the oil fire softened the asphalt on the roadway, people ran from the Bridge, fleeing from what had turned into a blazing car park. The fire generated temperatures in excess of 1000 degrees and the steel walls separating the amidships tank compartment from the others on the Ocean Venturer began to twist and buckle.

‘Anthea, you’re to pull the emergency brake now. Don’t ask questions sweetheart, just do it,’ Murray said quietly.

‘But…’

‘DO IT!’

Anthea found the yellow emergency handle near the doors. Above it was a warning of severe fines and imprisonment for improper use but Anthea trusted Murray with her life. With the distant gunfire on the harbour faintly audible, she pulled the handle and the train slid to a halt on the greasy tracks.

‘What the-’ The driver reacted angrily as he lost control of his train.

The captain of the Jerusalem Bay fingered the detonator in his right hand as he crouched below the shattered windows of his bridge.

‘Cover me!!’ Major Gould broke cover and fired several bursts from his MP-5 as he stormed forward towards the foot of the companionway that led to the bridge above him.

As he peered above the shattered port side glass, the Sydney Opera House was so close the captain could see the bars and entertainment areas inside. Reluctantly he realised that he would not be able to get his ship as far as the ferry terminals in Sydney Cove, but it was better to detonate now than not at all.

‘ Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is-

The detonator tumbled from the captain’s hand as Major Gould burst in through the bridge’s rear bulkhead, his MP-5 blazing.

Kate Braithwaite stared numbly at the plasma screen in the State Crisis Centre showing the fiercely blazing tanker.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Curtis said softly, as he put his arm around Kate’s shoulder.

On the bridge of the Montgomery, Malik al-Falid tightened his seat belt as the Montgomery and the Wavell charged towards the Heads and the safety of the Pacific Ocean beyond.

‘Keep a sharp lookout,’ he ordered. ‘The infidel will try to mobilise his forces.’

Onboard the Melbourne Keke Newbold steadied himself in his captain’s chair on the starboard side of the bridge. As soon as he’d received word of the attack on Sydney, he’d turned the powerful frigate around and headed north back towards the Heads, demanding from his Marine Engineering Officer every last horsepower out of the Melbourne’s big gas turbines. Her huge prop was throwing a 3-metre high rooster’s tail of white water behind the stern. The phone beside him rang as the Melbourne’s Principal Warfare Officer called from the operations room two decks below.

‘Captain, this is the PWO, we’ve got an update on the situation here, Sir. You’d better come down and have a look.’

‘On my way,’ he replied brusquely, leaving the ship in the hands of the officer of the watch.

The operations room was lit with a green glow from the radar and fire control screens and as soon as he entered through the bulkhead Captain Newbold put his headphones on and took a call from General Howard.

‘ Melbourne, over.’

There was more than a touch of restrained anger in General Howard’s voice. ‘The two tugs are running for the Heads and they’re presently west of Line Zulu. All commercial shipping’s been suspended and you are cleared to destroy them, over.’

Keke glanced at the two blips on the radar operator’s screen.

‘PWO, sound action stations,’ Keke said calmly.

‘Hands to action stations, hands to action stations.’

‘PWO,’ Captain Newbold commanded, ‘these are harpoon targets, let me know when we’re in range.’

‘Captain, Sir, harpoon targets 2412 and 2413 confirmed, ready to engage.’

‘Engage,’ Keke said without emotion.

‘Birds away.’

Captain Newbold and his PWO watched while first one missile and then another left a track of phosphorescent blips across the ship’s radar screens.

On the bridge above, Lieutenant Campbell focused his binoculars on the tugs that were now clear of Sydney Heads.

‘Bastards,’ he exclaimed, as he watched the Montgomery and then the Wavell explode into separate balls of flame.

Even among the chaos it had taken Murray Black barely 15 minutes to get across to Observatory Hill, a short distance from the train tracks. As he ran towards Anthea and the children the tears streamed down his face.