‘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.