Today was his first consignment involving the rig, with a full tank of 3.5 megalitres of premium grade petrol, destined for two service stations along the Pacific Highway. It was his proudest moment and his fifteen year old son Raymond had come along to support him on his special day.
Traffic was heavy on Cleveland Road, as it always was in the middle of the week, and Ralph took his time making sure his rig didn’t receive its first scrape on the vehicle’s inaugural run.
In spite of the enormous amount of flammable payload in his rear, Ralph felt safe in his expertly made state-of-the-art tanker. The seats were well upholstered and comfortable, but not overly so -- falling asleep at the wheel was discouraged by a special sensor situated at the top of the windscreen, which detected a specific change in eye movements. He smiled at Raymond, thinking he was a chip off the old block, as the traffic began to thin out towards the end of Cleveland Road, where a large traffic island directed them onto the Pacific Highway.
Ralph could hardly remember a time when he didn’t want to be a truck driver. The ambition went right back to his early years in juniors at Paramatta school.
He could remember playing with his ‘Dinky’ dump trucks in the sand pit and around the school playground. Untold hours were spent shunting little piles of sand to and fro from pit to playground. A year later a new kid named Tim Wilson entered the school and joined him in the sand pit. He brought along his prize possession -- a shiny new ‘Dinkey’ petrol tanker with the words ESSO embellished along the side in midnight blue. This was something different; a truck with a giant petrol tank on the back of it -- this would the toy he would fall in love with for the rest of his life.
Ralph made a deal with ‘Willo’ the kid who had the best Dinkey toy in school. It took two dump trucks, a bag of marbles and a box of licorice allsorts to take the miniature tanker away from Willo, who drove a very hard bargain.
Ralph had no regrets even though he was now reduced to one Dinkey toy, and even this was on very shaky ground. As one boy after another tried to rest it away from him via a game of marbles or conkers...Ralph would have non of it.
He looked around the cabin of his new truck admiring the plush leather seating and full instrument fascia panel. Opening the glove compartment he gazed at the battered Dinkey petrol tanker laying on its side, its role had changed over the years, it was now his lucky charm, and as long as the toy remained with him he knew he was safe. It had been on innumerable trips with him and he never missed a delivery without his precious Dinkey tanker. Having been comforted by his lucky charm he closed the glove box and looked up ahead.
The large traffic island which would take him onto the Pacific Highway was now just fifty yards away and it was now time to concentrate. Such islands could be a great danger for long petrol trailers unless the driver handled the rig carefully, jackknifing a new trailer was the last thing he needed. The traffic began to slow and Ralph handed his son a large red apple to keep him occupied while he concentrated on the handling the big petrol rig.
‘So far, so good son...we’ll be onto the highway in a couple of ticks,’ his son beamed as he sank his teeth into the polished apple.
Ralph applied the brakes just before entering the island producing a satisfying hiss as he operated the brake pedal. It was then he noticed a large black vehicle approaching the island at a prodigious speed with a convoy of other vehicles locked onto its rear.
Nervous pulses ran down his oesophagus and culminated in his stomach initiating a backward ripple. He’d encountered scenarios like this before and knew that they nearly always ended in disaster. His mind went into overdrive...there was no way the vehicle would be able to stop safely before it reached the island. A series of past fatal incidents flashed through his brain -- scenarios that had remained fixed in his mind on account of their tragic horrors. They goaded him on, as if to say...get out of this one if you can!
Somehow he had to get the trailer out of the way. It was impossible to reverse with all the traffic backed up in his rear. With only a few precious seconds left an instant decision was needed.
Ralph pushed his foot on the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel hard to the right as he tried to negotiate the island at high speed. Both actions created an over correction and Ralph struggled to correct it. Fear intervened and wiped out any rational thinking, as the rig hit a ballard, and knocked over a large street lamp, trapping the tanker across the traffic island. Petrol spilled out from a large hole in the belly of the huge steel tank -- it was the dreaded tanker accident Ralph had feared the most, a jackknife across one of Sydney’s major traffic intersections was the ultimate petrol tanker faux pas.
‘Silly bastard,’ shouted Jenkins as the tanker loomed large in the hearse’s windscreen. The tires howled and whined as he pumped the brakes. The coffin shot forward smashing the glass and metal dividing screen and missed Jenkins by millimeters.
The hearse wasn’t designed for speed or emergency stops, and lightweight brakes fitted to the vehicle were no match for the inertial mass of a runaway coffin filled to capacity with Chester’s obese corpse.
An ear splitting screech and a retort, that only God could have created, shook the area for miles around. The heavy coffin conveyance went straight through the tanker splitting it in two and showering petrol fifty feet into the air, soaking everything within thirty feet of the traffic island.
Jenkins, strapped in the wreck and barely alive, looked up at the sky through blooded eyes and blackened face. He squelched in premium grade petrol, which floated up to his chest. Above his head a light fixture dangled precariously swinging to and fro -- abruptly it snapped and hit the curb creating the tinniest of sparks -- but it was enough to cause the next monumental detonation.
Jansen and the police motorcade were thirty yards away when the eruption occurred. A blinding flash followed by intense heat were the first deadly harbingers to arrive. Anyone in eye contact was temporarily blinded by the flash and then deafened by the huge explosion. Finally a huge gust of hot air singed everyone's eyebrows within thirty feet of the centre of the blast. The heat built up as the massive pile up of machinery and combustibles combined to produce a gigantic fireball, melting the bitumen and blanketing the area with choking black smoke. Several of the following SUV’s were caught up in the mayhem and plied into the burning mass of vehicles. The sudden impact and disorientation of the incident caught many of the security detail off guard, and all of Jerkin's secret service personnel were promptly incinerated as well as dozens of other people in the vicinity.
The furnace like conditions burnt and singed trees, cars and people. Many of the street lights exploded as flames licked away at the their vitals. Traffic was grid locked for hundreds of metres in all directions making it almost impossible for many people to flee the scene. One vehicle after another caught fire and the flames started to spread along the lines of the traffic like a slow Dynamite fuse. Fire engines and ambulances were fighting to get through to the center of the conflagration. Wreckage and debris cluttered the area, glass was scattered everywhere, burnt metal parts littered the gutter. Pools of hot water and glycol smoked away as the coolant of a multitude of broken radiators shed their precious fluids. All glass windows within a fifty yard radius were completely blown in. The massive black smoke cloud from burning tanker fuel began to turn day into night and the air became near impossible to breath. People covered their faces with tissues, handkerchiefs, scarves and any thing that would protect their airways from the fowl stench of burning rubber and fuel oil. Every other person brandished a mobile phone and was either speaking animatedly into it or snapping endless photo’s for posterity or possible media exploitation.
There was nothing like a messy disaster, it attracted people like bears to honey. Whole areas of the road and pavement were crowded with gawkers and ghoolish onlookers, who actually jostled each other for a better view. Some thought it was the set of a new action movie; such was the popularity of Sydney as one of the action movie capitals of the worl
d.
Jansen shook his head in disgust, then realised he was one of the onlookers himself, just an extra in a real life movie set that portrayed life as it really was. TV news helicopters massed at the scene, perilously close to each other, trying to get the best overall views
It was amazing how quickly news spread, only twenty minutes ago, it was just a normal traffic area totally devoid of any sensational views. Now there was no shortage of media personnel, cameras abounded from different TV stations and newspapers, with paparazzi photographers tagging along, hoping to get at least one sensational shot, which might make them a small fortune.
Jansen sat in the driving seat of his car and looked at Dutton as the apocalyptic scene rapidly unfolded.
‘I’ll bet the US vice president didn’t expect such a warm welcome from one of his staunchest of allies,’ said Jansen behind a sneaky smile.
‘Well he certainly earned it sir.’
‘I hope you’ve got lots of spare time Jeff...because we’re going to need it for the debriefing report and write up,’ Dutton smiled a skeptical smile, it would read like a thriller, but the necessary politically correct police writing methodology would ruin it. It would become unreadable to all but the keenest criminology student. He wished that he could write it his own way just once. At least it would have given vent to a long felt expression of personal freedom.
Chapter Sixty-nine
Sunday morning was normally a rest day for political indulgences, unless there was a good reason to think otherwise. But the PM had deliberately fixed the meeting date to confound the media, whilst also, discretely beefing up the security around Kirribilli House.
Jensen had parked his car in a public area and made his way to the PM’s residence. He showed his identity card at the front gates and walked slowly up to the house. Mrs. Ashcroft, the Kirribilli house keeper, opened the door almost immediately, as Jensen was about to ring the door bell.
‘Please come in commander, they’re expecting you on the terrace,’ Jansen stepped over the threshold and looked around the old house, both eyes wide open, it had the ambiance and smell of statesmanship, and yet at the same time seemed terribly domesticated. Family heirlooms, candid black and white photos, some with a tinge of sepia from a bygone age, dominated the main rooms.
The house keeper renewed her smile and directed him through the house and into the rear gardens, where a group of men were talking quietly.
There didn’t seem to be any undue increase in security, and the media was totally absent, although this was almost certainly an illusion.
Jensen recognised all four men present as he stepped onto the patio with an outstretched hand towards the PM, who was talking with the defence minister. To the left of the terrace amongst the roses was the ASIO Director and the Governor General, admiring and discussing the pros and cons of large rose gardens in public spaces. The PM introduced the other politicians and directed them towards the shaded garden area.
. It was down to business as they all took their places at the polished glass table, which had been tastefully covered by a patterned lace table cloth; a turn of the millennium present from Nottingham city council in the UK .
Jensen handed the PM his written report along with other relevant documents, a deliberately constrained smile graced his features.
‘It’s all there sir,’ the PM looked sullen as he accepted the large manilla envelope.
‘I’m sure its all there commander. However, before we proceed, I would like to hear your own personal story first -- and commander, don’t pull any punches,’
‘Right sir, as you wish,’ Jansen took a sip of lemon tea and touched his lips with his napkin. He looked into the garden vista conjuring up the right expressive sentiments.
‘What we have here sir is a criminal triad of unprecedented dimensions. To the person in the street unfamiliar with the political machinations of the present day, it would be quite unbelievable.
Vice president Jenkin’s made a deal with Muslim extremist Farid Kazeni over the phone. For thirty million dollars he gave Kazeni the complete itinerary of US president Garner’s visit to Australia.
Kazeni then contacted police commissioner Chester and arranged to pay him ten million dollers if he gave them secret tunnel information and allowed them free passage through the tunnels during the siege,’ The PM stared intensely at Jansen
‘So Chester sold his soul for ten million dollars?’
‘Not quite sir...Chester was strongly addicted to marihuana and Kazeni was his supplier. He got all the drugs he needed for free, provided he left the BIB alone. Of course he had to make it all look legitimate, and so he botched the tunnel siege so that the BIB would get away with it.’
‘But how does Jenkin’s fit into this, surely he wouldn’t sacrifice his career and betray his country for a mere thirty million.
‘Stranger things have happened sir, but you’ve got to realise that Jenkins was politically driven and power mad. He had spent millions on his political campaigns over the years and was now heavily in debt. Indebtedness would be his ruination if the public found out about it, and so he was desperate for money,’ at the mention of money, the ASIO director’s normally bland features brightened.
‘Speaking of money commander we know 10 million is in Rosey Chester possesion...but we’re not sure about where the rest is?’
Jansen smiled knowingly and walked over to the drinks tray, poured himself a whiskey, adding a splash of soda.
He sat down in front of the ASIO director.
‘At the moment sir, this is just a good theory. Clement Chester was murdered and strung up by the BIB, while his wife was at a Ladies Club meeting...he had become a liability to their cause and was therefore expendable.
The BIB planned the terrorist operation right down to the finest detail. The moment they realised the police commissioner could be bought with drugs, and the US vice president with money, they played it for all it was worth.
Jenkins arranged a low key visit to Australia to pick up the money the BIB owed him,’ the defence minister finished his coffee and interjected.
‘But surely commander he could have simply had it credited in an account in the US without leaving the country.’
‘True he could, but Jenkins was ever cautious of his high profile position, and any account dealings would have left an electronic trail,’ the PM frowned.
‘So it was cash in the hand then commander.’
‘That’s right, except Jenkins didn’t even want to dirty his hands with the cash, so he instructed they convert it into diamonds, which were so much easier to hide.’
The governor general rubbed his chin. ‘Why didn’t the BIB just keep all the money,’ Jansen smiled impishly.
‘You mean double cross the US vice president...I don’t think so sir. There was no way the BIB could have stood up to the most powerful man in the world, who was both United States president, and as corrupt as they were.
Jenkins was more than capable of annihilating the BIB, he could easily have arranged a preemptive strike behind their backs at anytime.
Ever the resourceful man, he arranged for two possible outcomes to cover his back. His first great ambition was to be permanent president of the United States by removing Garner at the first opportunity, and he almost succeeded. But when that failed he had a ready made second plan. He made a deal with the BIB, and insisted they pay him for the information he gave them in diamonds.’
The PM helped himself to a double whiskey and topped the glass up with tonic water. He surveyed his immaculate collection of roses, strolled around the upper garden terraces, turned round and squinted at Jensen.
‘Jenkins had it made then!’
‘Apparently...unfortunately for him he finally bumped into reality.’
‘So where did they make the diamond drop then commander?’
‘Once again sir, Jenkins cautious nature came into play. Since the BIB had easy access to Clement Chester, dead or alive, Jenkins suggested that they arrange a
dead drop in Chester’s coffin.’ The governor general had so far listened with growing incredulity.
‘You mean they stowed the forty million dollars worth of diamonds beneath Chester’s dead body...and they were there throughout the entire funeral service?’
‘Yes, but they were actually in his coat pockets, both were stuffed to the brim with white diamonds,’ the PM took another large gulp of whiskey and tonic and initiated a doubtful grimace.
‘How do you know this commander?’ Jensen picked up his attaché case opened it and took out two black velvet bags.
He deposited the contents on the table. Two large clumps of soiled gem stones covered in carbonised fabric occupied the centre of the table.
‘I’m afraid Chester’s dead body and the Vice president were both incinerated in the fireball following the crash. But these babies weren’t,’ Jansen ran his fingers through the slimy collection of carbonised debris and tarnished stones.
Suddenly realising the enormity of it all, the PM grasped the manilla envelope and held it firmly to his chest.
‘So the official story is all in here then commander?’
‘That’s right sir...a complete write-up’
The PM abruptly turned and walked into the house then keyed in a number on the phone. Jansen gazed at the governor general his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘What’s the PM doing sir?
“He’s probably talking to the media right now, putting a positive spin on things,’ the ASIO director looked contemptuously at the governor.
‘You mean he’s covering his own arse.’
‘So much for Sunday meetings without the media,’ Jansen muttered. His mobile buzzed and Dutton’s voice came through the earpiece.
‘There’s a call from the Canberra office sir, an urgent case has come up.’
‘Right Jeff, be with you in a tick,’ Jansen looked around at the gardens, it was a lovely place for Sunday tea, but politics had spoilt the ambiance, and as far as he were concerned, the tea party was over. He gazed at the PM still avidly talking on the phone and turned to the others.
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