‘Right away sir.’
Chester was a no nonsense commissioner and would not suffer fools gladly. He was product of the NSW Police Academy and believed strongly in keeping order at all costs, even to the point of man handling the public should they threaten to cross the line. He decried the softening up of control to political correctness and had clashed many times with the police minister. His greatest enemy was own wariness and his once fine police mind had given way to irascibility, which served to cover up his ever increasing indecision and lack of control. He had over heard comments from his front line commanders on a number of occasions who had stooped to calling him ‘Chester the Jester’ behind his back.
The presidential visit was a chance to show his doubters that he could handle such an important occasion, just as he did the Apex meeting a few years back. He switched to the Maritime Museum CCTV camera and watched the president making his speech.
President Garner leaned in towards the ships bell donated by former president Bush and openly admired the artifact, then praised the Australian people for their steadfast and resolute commitment to the coalition of the willing and the cause of freedom. He began to sway a little as an attack of dizziness caused him to grip harder on his nearest security officer’s arm; hardly noticeable to the general public, but Chester spotted it immediately.
He continued speaking forcefully then suddenly stopped in mid-sentance after a muscle contraction rippled up his oesophagus and dumped a quantity of undigested acidic food into his mouth cavity. This was the very thing he feared the most and he quickly used his handkerchief to remove the offending food debris. It was time to cut the speech short and get back to the safety of his limousine, where everything was on hand, including motion sickness pills and bigger vomit bags.
Waving, and forcing a contorted smile, he spoke a few words of farewell and abruptly turned towards the entrance, walking steadily, trying to keep his balance, after another dizzy spell suddenly erupted.
The New South Wales Premier looked agog at his presidential counterpart who’s rapidly receding rear surged towards the large exit doors. He held out his right hand displaying a gold miniature of Bush’s ships bell
waving it for all he was worth. A secret service agent grabbed it and ran after the president. This was one political memento the president just had to have for the sake of entente cordial with Australia.
Chester stared at the CCTV screen, looking at a blurry image of a wobbly president, and checked his watch -- the top man was leaving too early, he should be there for at least another fifteen minutes -- his mobile rang.
‘Hello Chester here.’
‘Change of plan sir, the president has a slight sickness and will not be stopping in the tunnel to inspect the facility,’ Chester broke a sigh of relief; it would never do for the US president to have a choking fit in a tunnel filled with carbon monoxide gases. Under normal conditions the air conditioning was barely adequate anyway. Chester felt a little easier knowing the visit would end just a little sooner than expected.
‘Okay, keep a close watch on the presidential party, let me know the minute they enter the western distributor tunnel,’ Chester’s curiosity got the better of him and he stopped the tape on camera number one and rewound it a few frames, then replayed it in slow motion. He studied the president closely watching his every move and facial inflection. From many years of past experience watching peoples behaviuor during police line-ups, and interviews, Chester had developed the ability to understand peoples body language for what it was, and the president was acting most strangely for a public figure.
So the great man had problems -- was it something he had eaten at the conference table or just the simple psychological excitement of the event. The difference was important -- if it was the food, then it could well be an Australian problem. The politically correct inquiry that would surely follow would be a ruddy nightmare. Chester secretly hoped it might be a mild heart attack, self centred though the thought was, it would keep himself and the authorities out of the shit.
Chapter Twenty-four
The presidential motorcade slowly pulled out of Darling Harbour and headed toward the city tunnel. A man along the way in faded blue jeans and a shabby duffle coat spoke into his mobile.
‘Yes, I was right Farid, the motorcade is heading for the tunnel entrance right now.’
‘You’re sure, our quarry seems to be rushing things, either that, or I’ve got the wrong schedule, maybe something else is bugging them...what is his problem?’
‘The president may be ill, his performance at the Maritime Museum was below par, he cut it short and coughed into his handkerchief.’
‘What’s your estimated time of arrival in the tunnel Habib?’
‘The motorcade seems to have speeded up...at this rate they’ll be in the tunnel in the next ten minutes.’
‘Right, give the last car five minutes into the tunnel then fire your RPG’s up their assess and bring up your men...I’ll alert the vets group at the airport turn off.’
Commissioner Chester watched the motorcade enter the tunnel and looked at his duty sergeant.
‘When are these bloody Yanks going to learn that a motorcade, however well armed it is, is a prime target...they’re sitting ducks. If the rag tag Afghan rebels can finish off dozens of Russian armoured columns, what can a group of determined insurgents do to a presidential motorcade?’
The appearance of the Americans set Chester thinking and he wondered about the type of man Garner was. Since when did a US president worry about its allies to the degree of making an extremely dangerous trip, costing thousands of dollars, just to receive their reassurance that it was okay to nuke the Iranians. It didn’t make a lot of sense to a free thinking man like Chester. At least on the surface it tended to show that Garner was a good man and probably cared about other nations and their people...or did he? Perhaps this was just a bit of baloney and a smart propaganda exercise.
Trouble was, having a good man with scruples as president, wasn’t always a good thing. The time would come when the USA needed a president who could wield a big stick and actually use it, without worrying about collateral damage. Compassion was one thing, but US political security was quite another. But...there was another more obvious reason for his unprecedented trip. Perhaps the man felt so insecure in his reasoning, that he had to get world approval before he could act.
Chester’s mobile crackled.
‘Hello HQ here, Chester speaking.’
‘The motorcade is nearly half way through the tunnel sir.’
‘Okay continue monitoring,’ Chester turned to his duty officer.
‘We’re in luck Sergeant, the president has a bug and they’re cutting back on the timing, they’ll be out of the distributor in ten to fifteen minutes,’ Chester’s mobile continued buzzing.
‘Hello Chester...’
‘Hello sir, we’ve got problems with the air ventilation shafts...all of them are out of order.’
‘What...that can’t be...whats the bloody problem?’there was a pregnant silence.
‘They’ve been interfered with sir.’
‘What do you mean interfered with commander?’
‘The two that have just been inspected have hardened cement all over the fan motors and blades...they’re useless.’
‘For fuck sakes commander, get your men onto this, someone is trying to stuff the ruddy system up. Take another ten men from barrier duty and get them into the tunnel pronto,’ this was the first hiccup that pointed to possible trouble along the way; suction fans didn’t grow cement vests on their own, especially in a sensitive area on the presidential route.
Chester barked another order down the phone.
‘Seal off the tunnel completely from the public...now!’
Chester felt the first pangs of fear raising slowly in his chest they were the sort of feelings that gave an elderly man a cardiac arrest. It was one thing Chester had noted in his long career as a front line policeman and later as a commission
er. Panic drove rough shod over the heart muscle causing it to beat faster to keep up the pace, and if it didn’t keep up it became erratic, and if this continued too long, the heart finally gave up the struggle. It was a fight or flight adrenaline pumping situation which was strictly for the younger, fitter policeman. The only real answer was to quit the situation immediately and find a calm environment. Toilet facilities were ideal, in fact, more often than not, the only way out of an impossible situation was behind locked doors with ones head between the knees, but this was the equivalent of running in the face of the enemy -- a court marshal offence in the military
Chester sat down and deliberately calmed himself with direct suggestions and a special cigarette he kept for such occasions. He lit the reefer and blew smoke at the no smoking sign muttering under his breath..
‘Stuff the political correctness...this is strictly medicinal.’ At the start to the cross city tunnel the police cordon closed in preventing any other traffic from gaining access.
Police barriers were being hastily moved in position to completely block the entrance from the general public.
In a ground floor car park two blocks away two SUV’s with heavy steel bull bars were revving their engines. Habib Sharazi gave the signal over his mobile for his men to move in.
They drove the short distance to the tunnel scattering several police officers who got in the way. Then revved up even more, smashing through the metal barriers the police had just erected, they were no match for the heavy bull bars which easily swept them aside.
The two SUV’s charged into the tunnel stopping some thirty metres from the last presidential vehicle -- two men jumped out of the SUV-- each man fired a rocket propelled grenade into the rear of the motorcade.
The last two vehicles shot in the air in a fiery cascade and landed upside down, scattering astounded secret service agents in all directions. Two of the vehicles burst into flames creating toxic black smoke, apart from a rolling fire ball, it was possibly the worst hazard encountered in a confined tunnel. One of the US agents had the forethought to quickly apply a portable CO2 extinguisher to the fires. Heavy black smoke would have effected everyone in the limited space rendering most weapons less effective.
Several of Habib’s men took up well protected positions at the side of the tunnel and deliberately avoided firing at the agents until the fires were out, then began to pick off the US agents, one at time, with their Russian Dragunov sniper rifles.
At police HQ Chester keyed in the chief US security officer’s mobile number in the lead car. ‘Hello sir...Chester here...just checking, is everything okay there.’
‘Yes everything is just fine commissioner, we’ll be out of the tunnel in the next five minutes.’ The chief was about to close the line when an enormous rumbling sound came from the rear of the convoy. Bits and pieces of hot metal bounced off the walls filling the tunnel area with sparks and black smoke. A blast of hot air charged through the tunnel severely vibrating the line of remaining security vehicles. The chief turned in his seat straining his neck -- he looked hard at his second in command.
‘We’re being hit.’
‘Looks like it sir...what do you think?’
‘We make a run for it -- it would be madness to take them on in this tunnel -- heaven knows what weaponry they might have. We’ll be out in no time the exit is just up ahead.’
At the distributor exit the group of war veterans were getting ready to cheer their president, and the police line eased off slightly, to allow them to get a better view of the limousines when they exited the tunnel entrance.
Instead of waving flags the veterans produced Uzi machine pistols hidden in their jackets and sprayed the police line with nine millimeter rounds, sending police officers to the ground.
Farid Kazeni charged into the tunnel waving his men on. Once inside they applied special eye drops to their eyes and donned respiratory face masks. Three of the terrorist stood just inside the tunnel and repeatedly fired batches of tear gas grenades into the blackness of the tunnel exit. Clouds of dense white smoke filled the entrance reducing visibility to near zero.
The American security chief in the lead car touched his blue tooth earpiece and gave an order to the motorcade.
‘We’re going to make a run for it, after three counts I will accelerate, follow me as closely as you can.’
The chief counted to three into his blue tooth head set and put his foot hard on the accellerator -- almost in the same instant he stamped on the brakes as hard as he could. A mere thirty metres away a ghostly line of a dozen terrorist emerged from the opaque white gas cloud, with RPG grenade launches pointing directly at the motorcade.
The lead car had traveled some thirty feet before stopping instantly in its tracks after ripping its rubber tires to shreds and belching clouds of acrid smoke. This completely blinded the second presidential limousine which hit the back of the lead vehicle with a deafening thud.
The senior security driver came close to hitting the wind screen in spite of his belt restraint, but set off the driver airbag instead. It filled the front seat with a great hiss in less than two seconds. The president and his two high ranking companions were lodged on the edge of their seats suspended by their safety belts. The other cars in the motorcade barely managed to avoid hitting each other by millimeters. The wisdom of Ellen Monard insisting they all wear their safety belts was the best move the motorcade had made so far. She had once befriended Princes Diana and was mindful of how important the humble safety belt was. They all sat back in their seats except for president Garner, who remained on the edge of his seat, fumbling with a vomit bag, which he filled to capacity after only one attempt.
Monard reached over the president with a box of tissues and gently cleaned up his face while offering soothing comments in his ear. She was surprised how bad he actually looked, his face was deathly white, and his eyes bloodshot. The cigar smoking incident had severely upset his system -- he was now a very sick man.
Although badly shook-up by the sudden attack and unexpected halting of their vehicles -- the bevy of service agents got out of their limousines and took cover behind them -- rather than remaining in the cars were they were sitting ducks for snipers. Several of the agents slowly crept towards the presidential car in order to defend the president from further attack. Some of the agents began firing in the direction of the terrorists. The chief in the lead car shouted into his earpiece.
‘Don’t spare the fire power...we need to get out of here.’ The driver in the second car turned round and peered over the back seat; the president was prone on the long seat with his security advisor wiping his brow with damp paper tissues. Ellen Monard was grappling with a small oxygen cylinder and fixing the mask to Garners face as shots ricocheted off the tiled tunnel walls. Kazeni crouched down with three of his men.
‘We’ve got them pinned down...spread out and continue using the Dragunov rifles,’ the firing continued unabated with the security agents gradually moving toward the presidential car. Several more shots rang out and three of the security agents went down -- shot in the head by sniper bullets. Clumps of NSW police, most of them armed with Glock pistols, were pinned down along the sides of the tunnel. A few bodies and wounded policeman lay unattended along the way. Each time a brave constable stuck his head out of line it was shot off by an eager BIB marksman. Glock pistols were good everyday hand guns, but near useless where accurate, sharp shooting, in a poor visibility environment was required.
The kill rate continued as the terrorist contingent applied their newly honed sniper skills with the state-of-the-art, Russian rifles; at this rate it was just a matter of time before every policeman and US security agent would be picked off. Being cornered in a tunnel with a superior armed opposing force was the worst case scenario for the secret service. With the president in tow, service tactics were based on hit and run procedures, not a prolonged, static shoot out. A stalemate started to set in with the odd opportunistic shot being fired. Another thirty minutes elapsed as
one after another service agent succumbed to opportunistic strikes by the Draganov sniper rifle. Brenda Jones a sergeant in the New south Wales police was pinned to the wall with three other police officers unable to move. The whole mess was a
horrible stalemate for a woman who had been used to achievement throughout her seven years in the police force. Her father had been a chief constable who had worked his way up the ranks largely by aggressive organising and daring do. Now it was Brenda’s turn to show them who was boss. She squinted around a 180 degree arc, crouched down, then ran like hell across the tunnel to the nearest US security contingent. A volley of nine millimeter rounds passed within inches of her head. Two agents huddled next to the fifth and sixth SUV’s welcomed her.
She spent nearly an hour firing opportunistic shots at the BIB finally wounding one man carrying a RPG launcher. Determined to even the odds she stepped out from behind the SUV and fired off her last three rounds at the man killing him instantly.
It was her last act as the BIB terrorist fired off his grenade as he fell to the ground. The rocket destroyed both SUV’s killing Brenda and two other US agents.
Only three agents were left crouching near the first car leaving just four other agents still inside their vehicles. One of the terrorist leveled his RPG launcher at the first car and fired a grenade. The vehicle lifted off the floor and exploded in flames killing the chief security agent, and his driver. The ear splitting blast echoed down the tunnel deafening anyone in ear shot.
Fresh air had now become a luxury in the confined corridor, all of the air conditioners were out at the airport turnoff end of the tunnel. Smoke continued to swirl around the vehicles and several had their conditioners running on the engine, which only added to the external
pollution. The sickly smell of concentrated carbon monoxide had now been somewhat muted by the choking stench of cordite and burning plastic. Death by smoke inhalation had taken over from the sniper’s bullets. Police began to loose their protective cover at the sides of the tunnel walls as respiratory difficulties gave way to coughing fits which revealed their locations. Bodies began to pile up and suicide at the hands of a BIB marksman was preferable to being choked to death by the build up of poisonous fumes. A number of police tried to make a run for the airport end of the tunnel only to be gunned down by unseen, gas masked, BIB men.
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